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

perfectly still; I saw myself as dead as Caesar, cut into mincemeat; and says I to myself, ‘Fanfer⁠—excuse me⁠—Dubois, my friend, you are lost, dead;’ and I thought of Mme. Alexandre.”

M. Verduret was buried in thought, and paid no attention to the worthy Joseph’s analysis of his personal sensations.

“What happened next?” said Verduret after a few minutes.

“Why, he was just as frightened as I was, patron. The rascal did not even dare to touch me. To be sure, I had taken the precaution to get out of his reach; we talked with a large table between us. While wondering what could have enabled him to discover the secret, I defended myself with virtuous indignation. I said:

“ ‘It cannot be; M. le marquis is mistaken. Who would dare touch his papers?’

“Bast! Instead of listening to me, he flourished an open letter, and said:

“ ‘This letter has been photographed! here is proof of it!’ and he pointed to a little yellow spot on the paper, shrieking out, ‘Look! Smell! Smell it, you devil! It is⁠—’ I forget the name he called it, but some acid used by photographers.”

“I know, I know,” said M. Verduret; “go on; what next?”

“Then, patron, we had a scene; what a scene! He ended by seizing me by the throat, and shaking me like a plum-tree, saying he would shake me until I told him who I was, what I knew, and where I came from. As if I knew, myself! I was obliged to account for every minute of my time since I had been in his service. The devil was worse than a judge of instruction, in his questions. Then he sent for the hotel porter, who had charge of the front door, and questioned him closely, but in English, so that I could not understand. After a while, he cooled down, and when the boy was gone, presented me with twenty francs, saying, ‘I am sorry I was so sharp with you; you are too stupid to have been guilty of the offence.’ ”

“He said that, did he?”

“He used those very words to my face, patron.”

“And you think he meant what he said?”

“Certainly I do.”

The fat man smiled, and whistled a little tune expressive of contempt.

“If you think that,” he said, “Clameran was right in his estimate of your brilliancy.”

It was easy to see that Joseph Dubois was anxious to hear his patron’s grounds for considering him stupid, but dared not ask.

“I suppose I am stupid, if you think so,” said poor Fanferlot humbly. “Well, after he had done blustering about the letters, M. le marquis dressed, and went out. He did not want his carriage, but I saw him hire a cab at the hotel door. I thought he had perhaps disappeared forever; but I was mistaken. About five o’clock he returned as gay as a bullfinch. During his absence, I had telegraphed to you.”

“What! did you not follow him?”

“I stayed on the spot in case of his return; but one of our friends kept watch on him, and this friend gave me a report of my dandy’s movements. First he went to a broker’s, then to the bank and discount office: so he must be collecting his money to take a little trip.”

“Is that all he did?”

“That is all, patron. But I must tell you how the rascals tried to shut up, ‘administratively,’ you understand, Mlle. Palmyre. Fortunately you had anticipated something of the kind, and given orders to watch over her safety. But for you, she would now be in prison.”

Joseph looked up to the ceiling by way of trying to remember something more. Finding nothing there, he said:

“That is all. I rather think M. Patrigent will rub his hands with delight when I carry him my report. He did not expect to see me any more, and has no idea of the facts I have collected to swell the size of his File 113.”

There was a long silence. Joseph was right in supposing that the crisis had come. M. Verduret was arranging his plan of battle while waiting for the report of Nina⁠—now Palmyre, upon which depended his point of attack.

But Joseph Dubois began to grow restless and uneasy.

“What must I do now, patron?” he asked.

“Return to the hotel; probably your master had noticed your absence; but he will say nothing about it, so continue⁠—”

Here M. Verduret was interrupted by an exclamation from Prosper, who was standing near a window.

“What is the matter?” he inquired.

“There is Clameran!” cried Prosper, “over there.”

M. Verduret and Joseph ran to the window.

“Where is he?” said Joseph, “I don’t see him.”

“There, at the corner of the bridge, behind that orange-woman’s stall.”

Prosper was right. It was the noble Marquis of Clameran, who, hid behind the stall, was watching for his servant to come out of the Archangel.

At first the quick-sighted Verduret had some doubts whether it was the marquis, who, being skilled in these hazardous expeditions, managed to conceal himself behind a pillar so as to elude detection.

But a moment came, when, elbowed by the pressing crowd, he was obliged to come out on the pavement in full view of the window.

“Now don’t you see I was right!” cried the cashier.

“Well,” said the amazed Joseph, “I am amazed!”

M. Verduret seemed not in the least surprised, but quietly said:

“The game needs hunting. Well, Joseph, my boy, do you still think that your noble master was duped by your acting injured innocence?”

“You assured me to the contrary, patron,” said Joseph in an humble tone; “and your opinion is more convincing than all the proofs in the world.”

“This pretended outburst of rage was premeditated on the part of your noble master. Knowing that he is being tracked, he naturally wishes to discover who his adversaries are. You can imagine how uncomfortable he must be at this uncertainty. Perhaps he thinks his pursuers are some of his old accomplices, who, being starved, want a piece of his cake. He will remain there until you come out: then he will come in to find out who you are.”

“But, patron, I can go home without