Читать книгу The Blackmailers: Dossier No. 113 - Richard Dalby - Страница 8
ОглавлениеIF there is one man in the world whom no event ought to surprise or move, that man is a superintendent of police in Paris.
The one sent for by M. Fauvel came in at once, followed by a little man dressed in black.
The banker hardly troubled to greet him, but began:
‘I dare say you have heard what painful circumstances have compelled me to send for you?’
‘I was told it was robbery.’
‘Yes, an odious and inexplicable robbery, committed here from that safe you see open, of which only my cashier’—pointing to Prosper—‘has the word and the key.’
‘Excuse me, officer,’ the cashier said in a low voice, ‘my chief, too, has the word and the key.’
‘To be sure, of course I have.’
The officer could see that it was a case in which each accused the other, and though one was the banker and the other the cashier, he observed them both very closely to try and draw a profitable conclusion from their manner.
The cashier was pale and drooping in his chair with his arms inert, while the banker was standing red and animated, expressing himself with extraordinary violence.
‘The importance of the loss is enormous, 350,000 francs is a fortune. Such a loss might have serious consequences for the wealthiest of firms. Today, too, I had a large sum to pay away.’
There was no mistaking the tone in which the superintendent of police said: ‘Oh, really?’ The first suspicion had crossed his mind.
The banker noticed it and quickly continued: ‘I met my obligations, though at a disagreeable sacrifice. I ought to add that if my orders had been carried out the money would not have been in the safe. I do not care to keep large sums here, and my cashier has orders to wait till the last moment before obtaining money from the Bank of France.’
‘Do you hear?’ the superintendent said to Prosper.
‘Yes, sir,’ the cashier replied, ‘it is quite right.’ This explanation dispelled the police officer’s suspicion.
The officer continued: ‘A robbery has been committed. By whom? Did the thief come from outside?’
After a little hesitation the banker said: ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I am certain,’ Prosper declared, ‘he did not.’
Turning to the man who had accompanied him, the superintendent of police said:
‘See if you can discover, M. Fanferlot, any clue which has escaped these gentlemen.’
M. Fanferlot, nicknamed the squirrel on account of his agility, had a turned up nose, thin lips and little round eyes. He had been employed for five years by the police and was ambitious, as he had not yet made himself famous. He made a careful examination and said:
‘It appears to me very difficult for a stranger to get in here.’
He looked round.
‘Is that door,’ he asked, ‘shut at night?’
‘Always locked.’
‘Who keeps the key?’
‘The porter,’ Prosper replied. ‘I leave it with him every night when I go.’
‘Is he here?’ the superintendent asked.
‘Yes,’ the banker replied.
He opened the door and called:
‘Anselme.’
This young fellow had been for ten years in M. Fauvel’s service and was above suspicion, but he trembled like a leaf as he entered the room.
‘Did you sleep last night in the next room?’ the superintendent of police asked him.
‘Yes, sir, as usual.’
‘What time did you go to bed?’
‘About half past ten; I spent the evening at a restaurant with the valet.’
‘Did you hear any noise in the night?’
‘No! And yet I am a very light sleeper, and the master’s light footsteps, when he goes down to the strong room in the night, awaken me.’
‘Does M. Fauvel often come down in the night?’
‘No, sir, very rarely.’
‘Did he come down last night?’
‘No! I am quite sure he did not, for I hardly closed my eyes last night, as I had been drinking coffee.’
The superintendent dismissed him, and M. Fanferlot resumed his search.
He opened a door and said:
‘Where does this staircase lead to?’
‘To my private room,’ M. Fauvel replied, ‘the room into which you were shown on your arrival.’
‘I should like to have a look round it,’ M. Fanferlot declared.
‘Nothing can be easier,’ M. Fauvel replied. ‘Come along, gentlemen, and you too, Prosper.’
M. Fauvel’s private office was divided into two parts: a sumptuously furnished waiting room, and plainly furnished room for his own use. These two rooms had only three doors: one opened on to the staircase they had ascended, another opened into the banker’s bedroom, and the third opened on to the vestibule of the grand staircase; by this door his clients entered.
After M. Fanferlot had glanced round the inner room, he went into the waiting room, followed by all but Prosper.
Prosper was in a state of utter bewilderment, but he was beginning to realize that the affair had resolved itself into a struggle between his employer and himself. At first he had not believed his master would carry out his threats, for though he realized how poor his chances of success were, on the other hand, in a case of the sort, the employer had much more at stake than his cashier.
At that moment the door of the banker’s bedroom opened and a beautiful young girl entered. She was tall and slender and her morning wrapper showed off her beautiful figure. She was a brunette with large soft eyes and beautiful black hair. She was M. André Fauvel’s niece, and her name was Madeleine.
Expecting to see her uncle alone, she uttered an exclamation of surprise at the sight of Prosper Bertomy.
Prosper, who was as surprised as she was, could do nothing but murmur her name. After they had stood for a few moments with bent heads in silence, Madeleine murmured:
‘Is that you, Prosper?’
These few words seemed to break the charm and Prosper replied in a bitter tone:
‘Yes, it is your old playfellow, Prosper, and he is accused of a cowardly and shameful theft; and before the day is over he will be in prison.
‘Good God!’ she cried with a gesture of affright. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Have not your aunt and cousins told you, mademoiselle?’
‘No, I have hardly seen them this morning. Tell me what has happened?’
The cashier hesitated and sadly shook his head.
‘Thank you, mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘for this proof of your interest; but allow me to spare you a sorrow by keeping silent.’
Madeleine interrupted him with an imperious gesture.
‘I want to know,’ she said.
‘Alas, mademoiselle,’ the cashier replied, ‘you will learn soon enough my shame and misfortune.’
She tried to insist, to command, and then pleaded, but he had made up his mind.
‘Your uncle is in the next room with the superintendent of police,’ he resumed, ‘and they will return in a minute. Please withdraw, so that they do not see you.’
As he gently pushed her through the door the others returned from their search.
But Fanferlot had kept observation on the cashier with the idea of finding out something from the expression of his face when he believed himself to be alone, and so had witnessed the interview. He at once formed a theory from it, which he decided to keep to himself for the present. He thought that they were lovers against the banker’s wish, and that the latter had himself committed the robbery in order to accuse this undesirable suitor of it and so get rid of him.
The search of the upper part of the premises completed, the party descended to the cashier’s office, where the superintendent remarked that their search had simply confirmed the opinions they had first formed.
The detective who was making a minute examination of the safe gave the most manifest signs of surprise, as if he had made a discovery of the utmost importance. The others at once gathered round and asked what he had discovered. After some hesitation he replied:
‘I have found out that the safe has been quite recently opened or shut in a hurry, and with some violence.’
‘How do you know that?’ the superintendent asked.
The detective, as he handed him the magnifying-glass, pointed out a slight chafing which had marked the varnish for a distance of twelve or fifteen centimetres.
‘Yes, I can see it,’ the superintendent said, ‘but what does it prove?’
‘Nothing at all,’ Fanferlot replied, though he did not think so.
This scratch seemed to him to confirm his theory, for the cashier could have taken millions without any need for haste. The banker, however, if he came downstairs quietly at night to rob his own safe, had a thousand reasons for haste and might easily have made the scratch with the key.
The detective, who had quite made up his mind to solve the mystery, was now more determined than ever to keep his theories to himself, as well as the interview he had witnessed.
‘In conclusion,’ he said to the superintendent, ‘I declare that the robbery was not committed by an outsider. The safe has not been forced, nor has any attempt been made to force it. It was opened by someone who knew the word and had the key.’
This formal declaration convinced the superintendent, who at once said:
‘I shall be glad of a minute’s private talk with M. Fauvel.’
Prosper and the detective went into the next room, and the latter, in spite of his theories, was quite determined to keep his eye upon the cashier, who had taken a vacant chair.
The other clerks were burning to know the result of the inquiry and at last Cavaillon ventured to ask Prosper, who replied with a shrug of the shoulders:
‘It is not decided.’
His fellow clerks were surprised to see that he had lost all trace of emotion and had recovered his usual attitude, one of icy hauteur, which kept people at a distance and had made him many enemies.
After a few minutes Prosper took a sheet of paper and wrote a few lines upon it.
The detective seemed to suddenly awaken out of a deep sleep, and the thought came to him that now he would find out something positive.
After finishing his short letter, Prosper folded it up as small as possible and threw it to Cavaillon, saying, as he did so, one word only:
‘Gypsy!’
This was effected with such skill and sangfroid that even the detective was surprised.
Before taking action the superintendent, either out of deference or from the hope of obtaining more information from a private conversation, decided to warn the banker.
‘There can be no doubt, sir,’ he said as soon as they were alone, ‘that this young man has robbed you. I should be neglecting my duty if I did not arrest him; afterwards the magistrate will either confirm his arrest or set him at liberty.’
This statement appeared to touch the banker, for he murmured:
‘Poor Prosper!’
Seeing the superintendent’s astonishment at this, he added:
‘Till today I had the utmost faith in his probity and would have trusted him with my fortune. I almost went down upon my knees to get him to admit his fault and promised him pardon, but I could not touch him. I loved him and do so still, in spite of the humiliation I foresee!’
‘What humiliation?’ asked the superintendent.
‘I shall be questioned.’ M. Fauvel quickly resumed. ‘I shall be obliged to lay bare to a judge my exact business position and operations.’
‘Certainly, sir, you will be asked a few questions, but your well-known integrity—’
‘But he was honest also. Who would have been suspected this morning if I had been unable to find 300,000 francs at once?’
To a man with a heart, the thought, the possibility even of suspicion, is a cruel suffering. The superintendent could see that the banker was suffering.
‘Compose yourself, sir,’ he said; ‘in less than a week we shall have evidence enough to convict the criminal, whom we can now recall.’
Prosper received the news of his arrest with the utmost calm. His only remark was:
‘I swear that I am innocent!’
M. Fauvel, who seemed much more disturbed than his cashier, made one last effort:
‘There is still time,’ he said, ‘reflect—’
Prosper took no notice of him, but drew a key from his pocket and put it on the shelf, saying:
‘There is the key of your safe; I hope you will recognize before it is too late that I have not stolen anything from you. There are the books and papers my successor will need. I must tell you, also, that without reckoning the 350,000 francs you will find a deficit in my cash.’
At the word deficit his hearers became all the more certain of his guilt; even the detective became doubtful of his innocence. The explanation, however, which Prosper gave soon diminished the gravity and significance of this deficit.
‘My cash is 3,500 francs short,’ he said. ‘I have drawn 2,000 francs of my salary in advance, and advanced 1,500 francs to several of my colleagues. Today is the last day of the month, and tomorrow we receive our salaries.’
‘Were you authorized to do this?’ asked the superintendent.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘but in doing so I have merely followed the example of my predecessor, and I am sure M. Fauvel would not have refused me permission to oblige my colleagues.’
‘Quite right,’ was M. Fauvel’s comment on the cashier’s remarks.
This completed the superintendent’s inquiry, and announcing that he was about to depart, he ordered the cashier to follow him.
Even at this fatal order, Prosper did not lose his studied indifference. He took his hat and umbrella and said:
‘I am ready to accompany you, sir!’
The superintendent shut up his portfolio and saluted M. Fauvel, who watched them depart with tears in his eyes and murmured to himself:
‘Would that he had stolen twice as much and I could esteem him and keep him as before.’
Fanferlot, the man with the open ears, overheard the expression. He had remained behind looking for an imaginary umbrella, with the intention of obtaining possession of the note Prosper had written, which was now in Cavaillon’s pocket. He could easily have arrested the latter and taken it by force. But after reflection the detective decided that it would be better to watch Cavaillon, follow him and surprise him in the act of delivering it.
A few judicious inquiries as he was leaving informed the detective that there was only one entrance and exit to the premises of M. Fauvel, the main entrance in the Rue de Provence.
The detective on leaving the bank premises took up a position in a doorway opposite, which not only commanded a view of the entrance, but by standing on tiptoe he could see Cavaillon at his desk.
After a long wait, which he spent in considering the facts of the robbery, he saw Cavaillon get up and change his office coat. A minute afterwards he appeared at the door, and glanced to right and left before starting off in the direction of the Faubourg Montmartre.
‘He is suspicious,’ thought the detective, but it was simply a desire to take the shortest cut, so that he might be back as quickly as possible, which caused him to hesitate.
He walked so quickly that the detective had some difficulty in keeping pace with him, till he reached number 39, Rue Chaptal, where he entered.
Before he had gone more than a step or two along the corridor the detective tapped him on the shoulder. Cavaillon recognized the detective, turned pale, and looked round for a way of escape, but his progress was barred.
‘What do you want?’ he asked in a frightened voice.
With the civility for which he was famous, M. Fanferlot, nicknamed the squirrel, replied:
‘Excuse the liberty I have taken, but I shall be glad if you will give me a little information.’
‘But I don’t know you.’
‘You saw me this morning. Be good enough to take my arm and come into the street with me for a minute.’
There was no help for it, so Cavaillon took his arm and went out. The Rue Chaptal is a quiet street, well adapted for a talk.
‘Is it not, sir, a fact,’ began the detective, ‘that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning?’
‘You are mistaken,’ he replied, blushing.
‘I should be sorry to say you were not telling the truth, unless I were sure.’
‘I assure you Prosper gave me nothing.’
‘Pardon me, sir, but do not deny it,’ Fanferlot said, ‘or you will force me to prove that four of your fellow-clerks saw him throw you a note.’
Seeing that denial was useless, the young man changed his method.
‘Yes, that is quite right; I received a note from Prosper, but it was private, and after reading it I tore it up and threw the pieces in the fire.’
It was very likely that this was true, but Fanferlot decided to take his chance.
‘Allow me, sir, to remark that is not correct; the note was to be delivered to Gypsy.’
Cavaillon made a despairing gesture which told the detective that he was right, and began:
‘I swear to you, sir—’
‘Do not swear at all, sir,’ Fanferlot interrupted; ‘all the oaths in the world are useless. You have the note in your pocket and entered that house to deliver it.’
‘No, sir; no.’ The detective took no notice of the denial and went on:
‘You will be good enough to let me read the note.’
‘Never,’ Cavaillon replied.
Thinking this was a favourable opportunity, the young man tried to free his arm, but the detective was as strong as he was polite.
‘Take care not to injure yourself, young man,’ the detective said, ‘and give me the note.’
‘I have not got it.’
‘Come; you will force me to adopt unpleasant measures. Do you know what will happen? I shall call two policemen and have you arrested and searched.’
It seemed to Cavaillon, devoted to Prosper though he was, that the struggle was now useless, and he did not even have the opportunity to destroy the note. To deliver up the note under these circumstances was not betraying a trust.
‘You are the stronger,’ he said; ‘I obey.’ He took the note from his case, cursing his own powerlessness as he did so, and handed it to the detective, whose hands trembled with pleasure as he opened it and read:
‘DEAR NINA,
‘If you love me, obey me quickly without a moment’s hesitation. When you receive this, take everything belonging to you—everything, and go and live in a furnished house at the other end of Paris. Do not show yourself; disappear as much as possible. On your obedience my life perhaps depends. I am accused of a large robbery and I am going to be arrested. There should be 500 francs in the drawer; take it. Give your address to Cavaillon and he will explain to you what I cannot tell you.
‘PROSPER.’
Had Cavaillon been less occupied with his own thoughts, he would have noticed a look of disappointment on the detective’s face. Fanferlot had hoped that this note was of importance, but it seemed to be merely a love-letter. The word ‘everything’ was, it was true, underlined, but that might mean anything.
‘Is Madame Nina Gypsy,’ the detective asked Cavaillon, ‘a friend of M. Prosper Bertomy?’
‘She is his mistress.’
‘She lives at No. 39, does she not?’
‘You know very well she does, for you saw me go in.’
‘Does she occupy rooms in her own name?’
‘No, she lives with Prosper.’
‘On what floor?’
‘The first.’
M. Fanferlot carefully refolded the note and put it in his pocket.
‘I am much obliged,’ he said, ‘for your information, and in return I will deliver the letter for you.’
Cavaillon offered some resistance to this, but M. Fanferlot cut him short with these words:
‘I will give you some good advice. If I were in your place, I would go back to the office and have no more to do with this affair.
‘But he is my friend and protector.’
‘All the more reason you should keep quiet. How can you help him? You are more likely to do him harm.’
‘But, sir, I am sure Prosper is innocent.’
That was, too, Fanferlot’s opinion; but he did not consider it wise to tell the young man this, so he said:
‘It is quite possible, and I hope it is so for M. Bertomy’s sake, and also for your sake, for if he is found guilty, you may be suspected too. So, go back to your work.’
The poor fellow obeyed with a heavy heart, wondering how he could help Prosper and warn Madame Gypsy.
As soon as he had disappeared, Fanferlot went over to the house and rang the first-floor bell. It was answered by a page to whom he showed the note when he asked to see the lady. He was shown into a beautifully-furnished drawing-room, and Madame Nina Gypsy came in at once.
She was a frail, delicate little woman, a brunette or rather golden, like a Havanna quadroon, with the feet and hands of a child. She had long silky lashes and large black eyes, and her lips, which were a little thick, displayed when she smiled the most beautiful white teeth.
She was not yet dressed, but appeared very charming in a velvet wrapper, and the detective was at first quite dazzled. She seemed surprised to see this shabby looking person in her drawing-room and at once assumed her most disdainful manner.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘I have a note to give you,’ said the detective in his most humble voice, ‘from M. Bertomy.’
‘From Prosper! Do you know him?’
‘I have the honour, and if I dare use the expression, I am one of his friends, one of the few who now have the courage to admit their friendship.’
The detective looked so serious that Madame Gypsy was impressed.
‘I am not clever at riddles,’ she said dryly; ‘what do you mean to insinuate?’
He took the letter from his pocket and handed it to the lady, saying as he did so:
‘Read this.’
Adjusting an eye-glass to her charming eyes she read the note at one glance. First she turned pale, then she became flushed and trembled as if she were about to faint. But in an instant she pulled herself together, and seizing the detective’s wrists in a grip which made him cry out:
‘Explain,’ she said; ‘what does it mean? You know what this letter says?’
Brave as he was, Fanferlot was almost afraid of Madame Nina’s anger.
‘Prosper is accused of taking 350,000 francs from his safe,’ he murmured.
‘Prosper a thief!’ she said; ‘how foolish. Why should he be a thief? He is well off, isn’t he?’
‘No; people say he is not rich, but has to live upon his salary.’
This reply seemed to confuse Madame Gypsy’s ideas.
‘But,’ she insisted, ‘he always has plenty of money—’
She dared not finish her sentence, for it suddenly occurred to her that if he were a thief it would be for her. But after a few seconds’ reflection her doubts disappeared.
‘No,’ she cried, ‘Prosper has never stolen a half-penny for me. A cashier might steal for the woman he loved, but Prosper does not love me and has never done so.’
‘Beautiful lady,’ protested the polite Fanferlot, ‘you don’t mean that.’
‘I do,’ she replied with tears in her eyes, ‘and it is true. He humours my fancies, but that proves nothing. I am nothing in his life—hardly an accident.’
‘But why—?’
‘Yes,’ Madame Gypsy interrupted, ‘why? You will be clever if you can tell me. I have tried to find out for a year. It is impossible to read the heart of a man who is so far master of himself that what is passing in his heart never mounts to his eyes. People think he is weak, but they are mistaken. This man with blonde hair is like a bar of steel painted like a reed.’
Carried away by the violence of her sentiments, Madame Nina was laying bare her heart to this man whom she believed was a friend of Prosper’s, while the detective was complimenting himself upon his skill in obtaining all this valuable information.
‘It has been said,’ he suggested, ‘that M. Bertomy is a great gambler.’
Madame Gypsy shrugged her shoulders.
‘Yes, that is true,’ she replied. ‘I have seen him win or lose considerable sums without a tremor, but he is not a gambler. He gambles in the same way that he sups and gets drunk—without passion and pleasure, but with a profound indifference which sometimes seems to me almost like despair. Nothing will ever remove the idea from my mind that he has a terrible secret in his life.’
‘Has he never spoken to you of the past?’
‘Did you not hear me tell you that he did not love me?’
Madame Nina began to weep, but after a few minutes her generous impulses told her that it was no time for despair.
‘But I love him,’ she cried, ‘and I must save him. I will speak to his employer and the judges, and before the day is over he will be free, or I shall be prisoner with him.’
This plan, though dictated by the most noble motives, did not meet with the detective’s approval, for he did not propose that the lady should appear till what he considered to be the proper moment. He therefore set to work to calm her and show the weakness of her plan.
‘What will you gain, dear lady?’ he said; ‘you have no chance of success and may be seriously compromised and treated as an accomplice.’
‘What does the danger matter?’ she cried. ‘I don’t think there is any; but if it exists, so much the better: it will give a little merit to a natural effort. I am sure Prosper is innocent, but if by any possible chance he is guilty, I wish to share his punishment.’
Madame Gypsy put on her hat and called upon Fanferlot to accompany her. But he had still several strings to his bow. As personal considerations had no weight with this lady he decided to introduce as an argument Prosper’s own interests.
‘I am ready, lady,’ he replied; ‘let us go. Only, while there is still time, let me tell you we shall probably do M. Bertomy more harm than good by taking a step he did not anticipate when he wrote to you.’
‘Some people,’ the young woman answered, ‘have to be rescued against their will. I know Prosper; he is the man to allow himself to be killed without a struggle—’
‘Excuse me, dear madame,’ the detective interrupted, ‘M. Bertomy does not seem to me that kind of man. I believe he has already fixed upon his line of defence, and perhaps by showing yourself at the wrong time you will destroy his most certain way of justifying himself.’
Madame Gypsy delayed her answer to consider Fanferlot’s objections.
‘But I cannot,’ she said, ‘remain inactive without trying to contribute to his safety.’
The detective, feeling that he had gained his point, said:
‘You have a simple way to serve the man you love, and that is to obey him; that is your sacred duty.’
She hesitated, so he picked up Prosper’s letter from the table and continued:
‘M. Bertomy when he is just about to be arrested writes to you and tells you to go away and hide, if you love him, and yet you hesitate. He has reasons for saying so you may be sure.’
M. Fanferlot had himself guessed the reason as soon as he entered the room, but he was keeping that in reserve.
Madame Gypsy was intelligent enough also to divine the reason.
‘Reasons!’ she began; ‘perhaps Prosper wished our liaison to remain a secret! No. I understand now. My presence here would be a serious charge against him. They would ask how he could give me all these things, and where he obtained the money to do so.’
The detective bowed his head in assent.
‘Then I must fly at once! Perhaps the police know already and will be here directly.’
‘Oh,’ Fanferlot said, ‘there is plenty of time.’
She rushed out of the room, calling her servants, and told them to put everything into her boxes as quickly as possible. She herself set the example. Suddenly an idea struck her and she went back to Fanferlot.
‘Everything is ready,’ she said, ‘but where am I to go?’
‘M. Bertomy said furnished rooms at the other end of Paris.’
‘But I do not know any.’
The detective seemed to reflect for a moment, and then, making every effort to conceal his joy at the idea, said:
‘I know a hotel where with an introduction from me you would be treated like a little queen, though it is not so luxurious as here.’
‘Where is it?’
‘On the other side of the water, the Hôtel du Grand-Archange, Quai Saint-Michel, kept by Madame Alexandré.
Nina never took long to make up her mind.
‘Here is the ink,’ she said, ‘write the introduction.’
He had finished in a moment.
‘With these three lines, lady,’ he said, ‘you will be well looked after.’
‘Very well! Now I must let Cavaillon know my address. He should have brought the letter—’
‘He could not come,’ the detective interrupted, ‘but I am going to see him and will let him know your address.
Madame Gypsy was about to send for a carriage, when Fanferlot volunteered to procure one for her. He stopped one as it was passing and instructed the driver to wait for a little dark lady, and if she ordered him to drive to the Quai Saint-Michel he was to crack his whip; but if she gave him any other address he was to get down from his box as if to put one of the traces right.
The detective crossed the road, entered a wine-shop opposite, and a minute afterwards the loud cracking of a whip disturbed the quiet street. Madame Nina had gone to the Grand-Archange.
The detective rubbed his hands with glee.
