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

information, my dear child,” he said after a long silence. “I will decide at once what steps to take, for it will never do to sit quietly and let things go on in this way. Return home without delay, and be careful of everything you say and do; for M. Fauvel suspects you of being in the plot. Send me word of anything that happens, no matter how insignificant it may be.”

Nina, thus dismissed, did not move, but said timidly:

“What about Caldas, monsieur?”

This was the third time during the last fortnight that Prosper had heard this name, Caldas.

The first time it had been whispered in his ear by a respectable-looking, middle-aged man, who offered his protection one day, when passing through the police-office passage.

The second time, the judge of instruction had mentioned it in connection with Gypsy’s history.

Prosper thought over all the men he had ever been connected with, but could recall none named Caldas.

The impassable M. Verduret started and trembled at the mention of this name, but, quickly recovering himself, said:

“I promised to find him for you, and I will keep my promise. Now you must go; good morning.”

It was twelve o’clock, and M. Verduret suddenly remembered that he was hungry. He called Mme. Alexandre, and the beaming hostess of the Archangel soon placed a tempting breakfast before Prosper and his friend.

But the savory broiled oysters and flaky biscuit failed to smooth the perplexed brow of M. Verduret.

To the eager questions and complimentary remarks of Mme. Alexandre, he answered:

“Chut, chut! let me alone; keep quiet.”

For the first time since he had known the fat man, Prosper saw him betray anxiety and hesitation.

He remained silent as long as he could, and then uneasily said:

“I am afraid I have embarrassed you very much, monsieur.”

“Yes, you have dreadfully embarrassed me,” replied M. Verduret. “What on earth to do now, I don’t know! Shall I hasten matters, or keep quiet and wait for the next move? And I am bound by a sacred promise. Come, we had better go and advise with the judge of instruction. He can assist me. Come with me; let us hurry.”

XXIII

As M. Verduret had anticipated, Prosper’s letter had a terrible effect upon M. Fauvel.

It was toward nine o’clock in the morning, and M. Fauvel had just entered his study when his mail was brought in.

After opening a dozen business letters, his eyes fell on the fatal missive sent by Prosper.

Something about the writing struck him as peculiar.

It was evidently a disguised hand, and although, owing to the fact of his being a millionnaire, he was in the habit of receiving anonymous communications, sometimes abusive, but generally begging him for money, this particular letter filled him with an indefinite presentiment of evil. A cold chill ran through his heart, and he dreaded to open it.

With absolute certainty that he was about to learn of a new calamity, he broke the seal, and opening the coarse café paper, was shocked by the following words:

Dear Sir⁠—You have handed your cashier over to the law, and you acted properly, convinced as you were of his dishonesty.

But if it was he who took three hundred and fifty thousand francs from your safe, was it he also who took Mme. Fauvel’s diamonds?

This was a terrible blow to a man whose life hitherto had been an unbroken chain of prosperity, who could recall the past without one bitter regret, without remembering any sorrow deep enough to bring forth a tear.

What! His wife deceive him! And among all men, to choose one vile enough to rob her of her jewels, and force her to be his accomplice in the ruin of an innocent young man!

For did not the letter before him assert this to be a fact, and tell him how to convince himself of its truth?

M. Fauvel was as bewildered as if he had been knocked on the head with a club. It was impossible for his scattered ideas to take in the enormity of what these dreadful words intimated. He seemed to be mentally and physically paralyzed, as he sat there staring blankly at the letter.

But this stupefaction suddenly changed to indignant rage.

“What a fool I am!” he cried, “to listen to such base lies, such malicious charges against the purest woman whom God ever sent to bless a man!”

And he angrily crumpled up the letter, and threw it into the empty fireplace, saying:

“I will forget having read it. I will not soil my mind by letting it dwell upon such turpitude!”

He said this, and he thought it; but, for all that, he could not open the rest of his letters. The anonymous missive stood before his eyes in letters of fire, and drove every other thought from his mind.

That penetrating, clinging, all-corroding worm, suspicion, had taken possession of his soul; and as he leaned over his desk, with his face buried in his hands, thinking over many things which had lately occurred, insignificant at the time, but fearfully ominous now, this unwillingly admitted germ of suspicion grew and expanded until it became certainty.

But, resolved that he would not think of his wife in connection with so vile a deed, he imagined a thousand wild excuses for the mischief-maker who took this mode of annoying him; of course there was no truth in his assertions, but from curiosity he would like to know who had written it. And yet suppose⁠—

“Merciful God! can it be true?” he wildly cried, as the idea of his wife’s guilt would obstinately return to his troubled mind.

Thinking that the writing might throw some light on the mystery, he started up and tremblingly picked the fatal letter out of the ashes. Carefully smoothing it out, he laid it on his desk, and studied the heavy strokes, light strokes, and capitals of every word.

“It must be from some of my clerks,” he finally said, “someone who is angry with me for refusing to raise his salary; or perhaps it is the one that I dismissed the other day.”

Clinging to this idea, he thought