File No. 113 by Émile Gaboriau (summer beach reads .txt) 📕

stammered, “I read in a newspaper that Clameran was about to marry Madeleine; and I acted like a fool.”

“What did you do?” inquired Verduret anxiously.

“I wrote an anonymous letter to M. Fauvel, informing him that his wife was in love with Raoul⁠—”

M. Verduret here brought his clinched fist down upon the little table near by, with such violence that the thin plank was shivered. His cheerful face in an instant clouded over.

“What folly!” he exclaimed, “how could you go and ruin everything?”

He arose from his seat, and strode up and down the room, oblivious of the lodgers below, whose windows shook with every angry stamp of his foot.

“What made you act so like a child, an idiot, a fool?” he said indignantly to Prosper.

“Monsieur!”

“Here you are, drowning; an honest man springs into the water to save you, and just as he approaches the shore you entangle his feet to prevent him from swimming! What was my last order to you when I left here?”

“To keep quiet, and not go out of the hotel.”

“Well.”

The consciousness of having done a foolish thing made Prosper appear like a frightened schoolboy, accused by his teacher of playing truant.

“It was night, monsieur,” he hesitatingly said, “and, having a violent headache, I took a walk along the quay thinking there was no risk in my entering a café; there I picked up a paper, and read the dreadful announcement.”

“Did you not promise to trust everything to me?”

“You were absent, monsieur; and you yourself might have been surprised by an unexpected⁠—”

“Only fools are ever surprised into committing a piece of folly,” cried M. Verduret impatiently. “To write an anonymous letter! Do you know to what you expose me? Breaking a sacred promise made to one of the few persons whom I highly esteem among my fellow-beings. I shall be looked upon as a liar, a cheat⁠—I who⁠—”

He abruptly stopped, as if afraid to trust himself to speak further; after calming down a little, he turned to Prosper, and said:

“The best thing we can do is to try and repair the harm you have done. When and where did you post this idiotic letter?”

“Yesterday evening, at the Rue du Cardinal Lemoine. It hardly reached the bottom of the box before I regretted having written it.”

“You had better have regretted it before dropping it in. What time was it?”

“About ten o’clock.”

“Then your sweet little letter must have reached M. Fauvel with his early mail; probably he was alone in his study when he read it.”

“I know he was: he never goes down to the bank until he has opened his letters.”

“Can you recall the exact terms of your letter? Stop and think, for it is very important that I should know.”

“Oh, it is unnecessary for me to reflect. I remember the letter as if I had just written it.”

And almost verbatim he repeated what he had written.

After attentively listening, M. Verduret sat with a perplexed frown upon his face, as if trying to discover some means of repairing the harm done.

“That is an awkward letter,” he finally said, “to come from a person who does not deal in such things. It leaves everything to be understood without specifying anything; it is vague, jeering, insidious. Repeat it to me.”

Prosper obeyed, and his second version did not vary from the first in a single word.

“Nothing could be more alarming than that allusion to the cashier,” said the fat man, repeating the words after Prosper. “The question, ‘Was it also he who stole Mme. Fauvel’s diamonds?’ is simply fearful. What could be more exasperating than the sarcastic advice, ‘In your place, I would not have any public scandal, but would watch my wife?’ The effect of your letter must have been terrible,” he added thoughtfully as he stood with folded arms looking at poor Prosper. “M. Fauvel is quick-tempered, is he not?”

“He has a violent temper, when aroused.”

“Then the mischief is not irreparable.”

“What! do you suppose⁠—”

“I think that an impulsive man is afraid of himself, and seldom carries out his first angry intentions. That is our chance of salvation. If, upon the receipt of your bombshell, M. Fauvel, unable to restrain himself, rushed into his wife’s room, and cried, ‘Where are your diamonds?’ Mme. Fauvel will confess all; and then goodbye to our hopes.”

“Why would this be disastrous?”

“Because, the moment Mme. Fauvel opens her lips to her husband, our birds will take flight.”

Prosper had never thought of this eventuality.

“Then, again,” continued M. Verduret, “it would deeply distress another person.”

“Anyone whom I know?”

“Yes, my friend, and very well too. I should certainly be chagrined to the last degree, if these two rascals escape, without having obtained complete satisfaction from them.”

“It seems to me that you know how to take care of yourself, and can do anything you please.”

M. Verduret shrugged his shoulders, and said:

“Did you not perceive the gaps in my narrative?”

“I did not.”

“That is because you don’t know how to listen. In the first place, did Louis de Clameran poison his brother, or not?”

“Yes; I am sure of it, from what you tell me.”

“There you are! You are much more certain, young man, than I am. Your opinion is mine; but what proof have we? None. I skilfully questioned Dr. C⁠⸺. He has not the shadow of suspicion; and Dr. C⁠⸺ is no quack; he is a cultivated, observing man of high standing. What poisons produce the effects described? I know of none; and yet I have studied up on poisons from Pomerania digitalis to Sauvresy aconite.”

“The death took place so opportunely⁠—”

“That anybody would be convinced of foul play. That is true; but chance is sometimes a wonderful accomplice in crime. In the second place, I know nothing of Raoul’s antecedents.”

“Is information on that point necessary?”

“Indispensable, my friend; but we will soon know something. I have sent off one of my men⁠—excuse me, I mean one of my friends⁠—who is very expert and adroit, M. Pâlot; and he writes that he is on the track. I am interested in the history of this sentimental, sceptical young rascal. I have an idea that he must have been a