File No. 113 by Emile Gaboriau (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

exquisite suavity and unequalled urbanity. Even with his prisoners he was the perfection of courtesy, and never was known to handcuff a man without first obsequiously apologizing for being compelled to do so.

“You will be kind enough, my dear monsieur,” he said, “to excuse the great liberty I take; but I really am under the necessity of asking you for a little information.”

“Information! From me, monsieur?”

“From you, my dear monsieur; from M. Eugene Cavaillon.”

“But I do not know you.”

“Ah, yes; you remember seeing me this morning. It is only about a trifling matter, and you will overwhelm me with obligations if you will do me the honor to accept my arm, and step outside for a moment.”

What could Cavaillon do? He took Fanferlot’s arm, and went out with him.

The Rue Chaptal is not one of those noisy thoroughfares where foot-passengers are in perpetual danger of being run over by numberless vehicles dashing to and fro; there were but two or three shops, and from the corner of Rue Fontaine occupied by an apothecary, to the entrance of the Rue Leonie, extended a high, gloomy wall, broken here and there by a small window which lighted the carpenters’ shops behind.

It was one of those streets where you could talk at your ease, without having to step from the sidewalk every moment. So Fanferlot and Cavaillon were in no danger of being disturbed by passers-by.

“What I wished to say is, my dear monsieur,” began the detective, “that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning.”

Cavaillon vaguely foresaw that he was to be questioned about this note, and instantly put himself on his guard.

“You are mistaken,” he said, blushing to his ears.

“Excuse me, monsieur, for presuming to contradict you, but I am quite certain of what I say.”

“I assure you that Prosper never gave me anything.”

“Pray, monsieur, do not persist in a denial; you will compel me to prove that four clerks saw him throw you a note written in pencil and closely folded.”

Cavaillon saw the folly of further contradicting a man so well informed; so he changed his tactics, and said:

“It is true Prosper gave me a note this morning; but it was intended for me alone, and after reading it I tore it up, and threw the pieces in the fire.”

This might be the truth. Fanferlot feared so; but how could he assure himself of the fact? He remembered that the most palpable tricks often succeed the best, and trusting to his star, he said at hazard:

“Permit me to observe that this statement is not correct; the note was intrusted to you to give to Gypsy.”

A despairing gesture from Cavaillon apprised the detective that he was not mistaken; he breathed again.

“I swear to you, monsieur,” began the young man.

“Do not swear, monsieur,” interrupted Fanferlot; “all the oaths in the world would be useless. You not only preserved the note, but you came to this house for the purpose of giving it to Gypsy, and it is in your pocket now.”

“No, monsieur, no!”

Fanferlot paid no attention to this denial, but continued in his gentlest tone:

“And I am sure you will be kind enough to give it to me; believe me, nothing but the most absolute necessity—”

“Never!” exclaimed Cavaillon; and, believing the moment favorable, he suddenly attempted to jerk his arm from under Fanferlot’s, and escape.

But his efforts were vain; the detective’s strength was equal to his suavity.

“Don’t hurt yourself, young man,” he said, “but take my advice, and quietly give up the letter.”

“I have not got it.”

“Very well; see, you reduce me to painful extremities. If you persist in being so obstinate, I shall call two policemen, who will take you by each arm, and escort you to the commissary of police; and, once there, I shall be under the painful necessity of searching your pockets, whether you will or not.”

Cavaillon was devoted to Prosper, and willing to make any sacrifice in his behalf; but he clearly saw that it was worse than useless to struggle any longer, as he would have no time to destroy the note. To deliver it under force was no betrayal; but he cursed his powerlessness, and almost wept with rage.

“I am in your power,” he said, and then suddenly drew from his pocket-book the unlucky note, and gave it to the detective.

Fanferlot trembled with pleasure as he unfolded the paper; yet, faithful to his habits of fastidious politeness, before reading it, he bowed to Cavaillon, and said:

“You will permit me, will you not, monsieur?” Then he read as follows:

 

“DEAR NINA—If you love me, follow my instructions instantly, without a moment’s hesitation, without asking any questions. On the receipt of this note, take everything you have in the house, absolutely everything, and establish yourself in furnished rooms at the other end of Paris. Do not appear in public, but conceal yourself as much as possible. My life may depend on your obedience.

“I am accused of an immense robbery, and am about to be arrested. Take with you five hundred francs which you will find in the secretary.

“Leave your address with Cavaillon, who will explain what I have not time to tell. Be hopeful, whatever happens. Good-by. PROSPER.”

 

Had Cavaillon been less bewildered, he would have seen blank disappointment depicted on the detective’s face after the perusal of the note.

Fanferlot had cherished the hope that he was about to possess a very important document, which would clearly prove the guilt or innocence of Prosper; whereas he had only seized a love-letter written by a man who was evidently more anxious about the welfare of the woman he loved than about his own.

Vainly did he puzzle over the letter, hoping to discover some hidden meaning; twist the words as he would, they proved nothing for or against the writer.

The two words “absolutely everything” were underscored, it is true; but they could be interpreted in so many ways.

The detective, however, determined not to drop the matter here.

“This Mme. Nina Gypsy is doubtless a friend of M. Prosper Bertomy?”

“She is his particular friend.”

“Ah, I understand; and she lives here at No. 39?”

“You know it well enough, as you saw me go in there.”

“I suspected it to be the house, monsieur; now tell me whether the apartments she occupies are rented in her name.”

“No. Prosper rents them.”

“Exactly; and on which floor, if you please?”

“On the first.”

During this colloquy, Fanferlot had folded up the note, and slipped it into his pocket.

“A thousand thanks, monsieur, for the information; and, in return, I will relieve you of the trouble of executing your commission.”

“Monsieur!”

“Yes: with your permission, I will myself take this note to Mme. Nina Gypsy.”

Cavaillon began to remonstrate; but Fanferlot cut him short by saying:

“I will also venture to give you a piece of advice. Return quietly to your business, and have nothing more to do with this affair.”

“But Prosper is a good friend of mine, and has saved me from ruin more than once.”

“Only the more reason for your keeping quiet. You cannot be of the slightest assistance to him, and I can tell you that you may be of great injury. As you are known to be his devoted friend, of course your absence at this time will be remarked upon. Any steps that you take in this matter will receive the worst interpretation.”

“Prosper is innocent, I am sure.”

Fanferlot was of the same opinion, but he had no idea of betraying his private thoughts; and yet for the success of his investigations it was necessary to impress the importance of prudence and discretion upon the young man. He would have told him to keep silent concerning what had passed between them, but he dared not.

“What you say may be true,” he said. “I hope it is, for the sake of M. Bertomy, and on your own account too; for, if he is guilty, you will certainly be very much annoyed, and perhaps suspected of complicity, as you are well known to be intimate with him.”

Cavaillon was overcome.

“Now you had best take my advice, monsieur, and return to your business, and—. Good-morning, monsieur.”

The poor fellow obeyed. Slowly and with swelling heart he returned to the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette. He asked himself how he could serve Prosper, warn Mme. Gypsy, and, above all, have his revenge upon this odious detective, who had just made him suffer cruel humiliation.

He had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than Fanferlot entered No. 39, gave his name to the porter as Prosper Bertomy, went upstairs, and knocked at the first door he came to.

It was opened by a youthful footman, dressed in the most fanciful livery.

“Is Mme. Gypsy at home?”

The groom hesitated; seeing this, Fanferlot showed his note, and said:

“M. Prosper told me to hand this note to madame, and wait for an answer.”

“Walk in, and I will let madame know you are here.”

The name of Prosper produced its effect. Fanferlot was ushered into a little room furnished in blue and gold silk damask. Heavy curtains darkened the windows, and hung in front of the doors. The floor was covered with a blue velvet carpet.

“Our cashier was certainly well lodged,” murmured the detective.

But he had no time to purse his inventory. One of the door-curtains was pushed aside, and Mme. Nina Gypsy stood before him.

Mme. Gypsy was quite young, small, and graceful, with a brown or rather gold-colored quadroon complexion, with the hands and feet of a child.

Long curling silk lashes softened the piercing brilliancy of her large black eyes; her lips were full, and her teeth were very white.

She had not yet made her toilet, but wore a velvet dressing-wrapper, which did not conceal the lace ruffles beneath. But she had already been under the hands of a hairdresser.

Her hair was curled and frizzed high on her forehead, and confined by narrow bands of red velvet; her back hair was rolled in an immense coil, and held by a beautiful gold comb.

She was ravishing. Her beauty was so startling that the dazzled detective was speechless with admiration.

“Well,” he said to himself, as he remembered the noble, severe beauty of Madeleine, whom he had seen a few hours previous, “our young gentleman certainly has good taste—very good taste—two perfect beauties!”

While he thus reflected, perfectly bewildered, and wondering how he could begin the conversation, Mme. Gypsy eyed him with the most disdainful surprise; she was waiting for this shabby little man in a threadbare coat and greasy hat to explain his presence in her dainty parlor.

She had many creditors, and was recalling them, and wondering which one had dared send this man to wipe his dusty boots on her velvet carpets.

After scrutinizing him from head to foot with undisguised contempt, she said, haughtily:

“What do you want?”

Anyone but Fanferlot would have been offended at her insolent manner; but he only noticed it to gain some notion of the young woman’s disposition.

“She is bad-tempered,” he thought, “and is uneducated.”

While he was speculating upon her merits, Mme. Nina impatiently tapped her little foot, and waited for an answer; finally she said:

“Why don’t you speak? What do you want here?”

“I am charged, my dear madame,” he answered in his softest tone, “by M. Bertomy, to give you this note.”

“From Prosper! You know him, then?”

“I have that honor, madame; indeed, I may be so bold as to claim him as a friend.”

“Monsieur! You a friend of Prosper!” exclaimed Mme. Gypsy in a scornful tone, as if her pride