Other People's Money by Emile Gaboriau (ebook smartphone txt) 📕

the trick that has been played upon them; but they do not know the man.  They saw him, they swear to me, for the first time that very morning; and they are ignorant even of his name.”

There was no doubt possible after such complete explanations.  The commissary had seen correctly, and he proved it.

It was not of a vulgar accident that Mlle. Lucienne had just been the victim, but of a crime laboriously conceived, and executed with unheard-of audacity,—of one of those crimes such as too many are committed, whose combinations, nine times out of ten, set aside even a suspicion, and foil all the efforts of human justice.

M. de Tregars knew now what had taken place, as clearly as if he had himself received the confession of the guilty parties.

A man had been found to execute that perilous programme,—to make the horses run away, and then to run into some heavy wagon.  The wretch was staking his life on that game; it being evident that the light carriage must be smashed in a thousand pieces.  But he must have relied upon his skill and his presence of mind, to avoid the shock, to jump off safe and sound; whilst Mlle. Lucienne, thrown upon the pavement, would probably be killed on the spot.  The event had deceived his expectations, and he had been the victim of his rascality; but his death was a misfortune.

“Because now,” resumed the commissary, “the thread is broken in our hands which would infallibly have led us to the truth.  Who is it that ordered the crime, and paid for it?  We know it, since we know who benefits by the crime.  But that is not sufficient.  Justice requires something more than moral proofs.  Living, this bandit would have spoken.  His death insures the impunity of the wretches of whom he was but the instrument.”

“Perhaps,” said M. Tregars.

And at the same time he took out of his pocket, and showed the note found in Vincent Favoral’s pocket-book,—that note, so obscure the day before, now so terribly clear.

“I cannot understand your negligence.  You should get through with that Van Klopen affair:  there is the danger.”

The commissary of police cast but a glance upon it, and, replying to the objections of his old experience rather more than addressing himself to M. de Tregars,

“There can be no doubt about it,” he murmured.  “It is to the crime committed to-day that these pressing recommendations relate; and, directed as they are to Vincent Favoral, they attest his complicity.  It was he who had charge of finishing the Van Klopen affair; in other words, to get rid of Lucienne.  It was he, I’d wager my head, who had treated with the false coachman.”

He remained for over a minute absorbed in his own thoughts, then,

“But who is the author of these recommendations to Vincent Favoral?  Do you know that, M. le Marquis?” he said.

They looked at each other; and the same name rose to their lips,

“The Baroness de Thaller!”

This name, however, they did not utter.

The commissary had placed himself under the gasburner which gave light to the Fortin’s office; and, adjusting his glasses, he was scrutinizing the note with the most minute attention, studying the grain and the transparency of the paper, the ink, and the handwriting.  And at last,

“This note,” he declared, “cannot constitute a proof against its author:  I mean an evident, material proof, such as we require to obtain from a judge an order of arrest.”

And, as Marius was protesting,

“This note,” he insisted, “is written with the left hand, with common ink, on ordinary foolscap paper, such as is found everywhere.  Now all left-hand writings look alike.  Draw your own conclusions.”

But M. de Tregars did not give it up yet.

“Wait a moment,” he interrupted.

And briefly, though with the utmost exactness, he began telling his visit to the Thaller mansion, his conversation with Mlle. Cesarine, then with the baroness, and finally with the baron himself.

He described in the most graphic manner the scene which had taken place in the grand parlor between Mme. de Thaller and a worse than suspicious-looking man,—that scene, the secret of which had been revealed to him in its minutest details by the looking-glass.  Its meaning was now as clear as day.

This suspicious-looking man had been one of the agents in arranging the intended murder:  hence the agitation of the baroness when she had received his card, and her haste to join him.  If she had started when he first spoke to her, it was because he was telling her of the successful execution of the crime.  If she had afterwards made a gesture of joy, it was because he had just informed her that the coachman had been killed at the same time, and that she found herself thus rid of a dangerous accomplice.

The commissary of police shook his head.

“All this is quite probable,” he murmured; “but that’s all.”

Again M. de Tregars stopped him.

“I have not done yet,” he said.

And he went on saying how he had been suddenly and brutally assaulted by an unknown man in a restaurant; how he had collared this abject scoundrel, and taken out of his pocket a crushing letter, which left no doubt as to the nature of his mission.

The commissary’s eyes were sparkling,

“That letter!” he exclaimed, “that letter!”  And, as soon as he had looked over it,

“Ah!  This time,” he resumed, “I think that we have something tangible.  ‘A troublesome gentleman to keep quiet,’—the Marquis de Tregars, of course, who is on the right track.  ‘It will be for you the matter of a sword-thrust.’  Naturally, dead men tell no tales.  ‘It will be for us the occasion of dividing a round amount.’  An honest trade, indeed!”

The good man was rubbing his hand with all his might.

“At last we have a positive fact,” he went on,—“a foundation upon which to base our accusations.  Don’t be uneasy.  That letter is going to place into our hands the scoundrel who assaulted you,—who will make known the go-between, who himself will not fail to surrender the Baroness de Thaller.  Lucienne shall be avenged.  If we could only now lay our hands on Vincent Favoral!  But we’ll find him yet.  I set two fellows after him this afternoon, who have a superior scent, and understand their business.”

He was here interrupted by Maxence, who was returning all out of breath, holding in his hand the medicines which he had gone after.

“I thought that druggist would never get through,” he said.

And regretting to have remained away so long, feeling uneasy, and anxious to return up stairs,

“Don’t you wish