The Champdoce Mystery by Emile Gaboriau (crime books to read TXT) 📕

Gaston into his sanctum, and, taking a seat, motioned to them to do the same. Verminet was a decided contrast to his office, which was shabby and dirty, for his dress did his tailor credit, and he appeared to be clean. He was neither old nor young, and carried his years well. He was fresh and plump, wore his whiskers and hair cut in the English fashion, while his sunken eyes had no more expression in them than those of a fish.

Gandelu was in a hurry to begin.

“Let us get to business,” said he. “Last week you lent me some money.”

“Just so. Do you want any more?”

“No; I want to return my bills.”

A cloud passed over Verminet’s face.

“The first does not fall due until the 15th,” remarked he.

“No matter; I have the money with me, and I will pay it on you handing over the bills to me.”

“I can’t do it.”

“And why so, pray?”

“The bills have passed out of my hands.”

Gaston could scarcely credit his ears, nor believe in the truth of this last statement, and was certainly upset, now knowing what to do.

“But,” stammered he, “you promised, when I signed those bills, that they should never go out of your hands.”

“I don’t say I did not; but one can’t always keep to one’s promise. I was forced to part with them. I wanted money, and so had to discount them.”

Andre was not at all surprised, for he had anticipated some such difficulty; and seeing that Gaston had entirely lost his head, he broke in on the conversation.

“Excuse me, sir,” remarked he; “but it seems to me that there are certain circumstances in this case which should have made you keep your promise.”

Verminet stared at him.

“Who have I the honor of speaking to?” asked he, instead of making a direct reply.

“I am a friend of M. de Gandelu’s,” returned Andre, thinking it best not to give any name.

“A confidential friend?”

“Entirely so. He had, I think, ten thousand francs from you.”

“Pardon me, five thousand.”

Andre turned toward his companion in some surprise.

Gaston grew crimson.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the artist.

“Can’t you see?” whispered Gaston. “I had ten because I wanted the other five for Zora.”

“Oh, indeed,” returned Andre, with a slight uplifting of his eyebrows. “Well, then, M. Verminet, it was five thousand francs that you lent to my young friend here. That was right enough; but what do you say to inducing him to forge a signature?”

“I! I do such a thing?” answered Verminet. “Why, I did not know that the signature was not genuine.”

This insolent denial aroused the unhappy Gaston from his state of stupor.

“This is too much, a deuced deal too much,” cried he. “Did you not yourself tell me that, for your own security, you must insist upon another name in addition to mine? Did you not give me a letter, and say, ‘Write a signature like the one at the bottom of this, it is that of Martin Rigal, the banker in the Rue Montmartre’?”

“An utterly false accusation, without a shadow of proof; and remember that a libel uttered in the presence of a third party is punishable by law.”

“And yet, sir,” continued Andre, “you did not hesitate for a moment in discounting these bills. Have you calculated what terrible results may come of this breach of faith on your part?—what will happen if this forged signature is presented to M. Martin Rigal?”

“Very unlikely. Gandelu is the drawer, Rigal merely the endorser. Bills, when due, are always presented to the drawer,” returned Verminet laconically.

Evidently a trap had been laid for Gaston, but the reason was still buried in obscurity.

“Then,” remarked Andre, “we have but one course to pursue: we must trace those notes to the hands in which they now are, and take them up.”

“Quite right.”

“But to enable us to do so, you must first let us know the name of the party who discounted them.”

“I don’t know; I have forgotten,” answered Verminet, with a careless wave of his hand.

“Then,” returned Andre, in a low, deep voice of concentrated fury, “let me advise you, for your own sake, to make an immediate call upon your powers of memory.”

“Do you threaten me?”

“And if you do not succeed in remembering the name or names, the consequences may be more serious than you seem to anticipate.”

Verminet saw that the young painter was in dangerous earnest, and rose from his chair, but Andre was too quick for him.

“No,” said he, placing his back against the door; “you will not leave this room until you have done what I require.”

For fully ten minutes the men stood gazing at each other. Verminet was green with terror, while Andre’s face, though pale, was firm and determined.

“If the scoundrel makes any resistance,” said he to himself, “I will fling him out of the window.”

“The man is a perfect athlete,” thought Verminet, “and looks as if he would stick at nothing.”

Seeing that he had better give in, the managing director took up a bulky ledger, and began to turn over the leaves with trembling fingers.

Andre saw that he was holding it upside-down.

“There it is,” cried Verminet at last.

“Bills for five thousand francs. Gandelu and Rigal, booked for discount to Van Klopen, ladies’ tailor.”

Andre was silent.

Why was it that Verminet had suggested Rigal’s signature as the one he ought to imitate? And why had he handed the bills over to Van Klopen? Was it mere chance that had arranged it all? He did not believe it, but felt sure that some secret tie united them all together, Verminet, Van Klopen, Rigal, and the Marquis de Croisenois.

“Do you want anything more?” asked the manager of the Mutual Loan Society.

“Are the bills in Van Klopen’s hands?”

“I can’t say.”

“Never mind, he will