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

when a middle-aged man of dark complexion and military air, clad in deep mourning, appeared in the office adjoining the “safe,” and announced to the five or six employees present his desire to see the cashier.

He was told that the cashier had not yet come, and his attention was called to a placard in the entry, which stated that the “cash-room” was opened at ten o’clock.

This reply seemed to disconcert and annoy the newcomer.

“I expected,” he said, in a tone of cool impertinence, “to find someone here ready to attend to my business. I explained the matter to M. Fauvel yesterday. I am Count Louis de Clameran, an iron-manufacturer at Oloron, and have come to draw three hundred thousand francs deposited in this bank by my late brother, whose heir I am. It is surprising that no direction was given about it.”

Neither the title of the noble manufacturer, nor his explanations, appeared to have the slightest effect upon the clerks.

“The cashier has not yet arrived,” they repeated, “and we can do nothing for you.”

“Then conduct me to M. Fauvel.”

There was a moment’s hesitation; then a clerk named Cavaillon, who was writing near a window, said:

“The chief is always out at this hour.”

“Then I will call again,” replied M. de Clameran.

And he walked out, as he had entered, without saying “Good morning,” or even touching his hat.

“Not very polite, that customer,” said little Cavaillon, “but he will soon be settled, for here comes Prosper.”

Prosper Bertomy, head cashier of Fauvel’s banking-house, was a tall, handsome man, of about thirty, with fair hair and large dark-blue eyes, fastidiously neat, and dressed in the height of fashion.

He would have been very prepossessing but for a cold, reserved English-like manner, and a certain air of self-sufficiency which spoiled his naturally bright, open countenance.

“Ah, here you are!” cried Cavaillon, “someone has just been asking for you.”

“Who? An iron-manufacturer, was it not?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, he will come back again. Knowing that I would get here late this morning, I made all my arrangements yesterday.”

Prosper had unlocked his office-door, and, as he finished speaking, entered, and closed it behind him.

“Good!” exclaimed one of the clerks, “there is a man who never lets anything disturb him. The chief has quarrelled with him twenty times for always coming too late, and his remonstrances have no more effect upon him than a breath of wind.”

“And very right, too; he knows he can get anything he wants out of the chief.”

“Besides, how could he come any sooner? a man who sits up all night, and leads a fast life, doesn’t feel like going to work early in the morning. Did you notice how very pale he looked when he came in?”

“He must have been playing heavily again. Couturier says he lost fifteen thousand francs at a sitting last week.”

“His work is none the worse done for all that,” interrupted Cavaillon. “If you were in his place⁠—”

He stopped short. The cash-room door suddenly opened, and the cashier appeared before them with tottering step, and a wild, haggard look on his ashy face.

“Robbed!” he gasped out: “I have been robbed!”

Prosper’s horrified expression, his hollow voice and trembling limbs, betrayed such fearful suffering that the clerks jumped up from their desks, and ran toward him. He almost dropped into their arms; he was sick and faint, and fell into a chair.

His companions surrounded him, and begged him to explain himself.

“Robbed?” they said; “where, how, by whom?”

Gradually, Prosper recovered himself.

“All the money I had in the safe,” he said, “has been stolen.”

“All?”

“Yes, all; three packages, each containing one hundred notes of a thousand francs, and one package of fifty thousand. The four packages were wrapped in a sheet of paper, and tied together.”

With the rapidity of lightning, the news of the robbery spread throughout the banking-house, and the room was soon filled with curious listeners.

“Tell us, Prosper,” said young Cavaillon, “did you find the safe broken open?”

“No; it is just as I left it.”

“Well then, how, why⁠—”

“Yesterday I put three hundred and fifty thousand francs in the safe; and this morning they are gone.”

All were silent except one old clerk, who did not seem to share the general consternation.

“Don’t distress yourself, M. Bertomy,” he said: “perhaps the chief disposed of the money.”

The unhappy cashier started up with a look of relief; he eagerly caught at the idea.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, “you are right: the chief must have taken it.”

But, after thinking a few minutes, he said in a tone of deep discouragement:

“No, that is impossible. During the five years that I have had charge of the safe, M. Fauvel has never opened it except in my presence. Several times he has needed money, and has either waited until I came, or sent for me, rather than touch it in my absence.”

“Well,” said Cavaillon, “before despairing, let us ascertain.”

But a messenger had already informed M. Fauvel of the disaster.

As Cavaillon was about to go in quest of him, he entered the room.

M. André Fauvel appeared to be a man of fifty, inclined to corpulency, of medium height, with iron-gray hair; and, like all hard workers, he had a slight stoop.

Never did he by a single action belie the kindly expression of his face.

He had a frank air, a lively, intelligent eye, and large, red lips.

Born in the neighborhood of Aix, he betrayed, when animated, a slight Provençal accent that gave a peculiar flavor to his genial humor.

The news of the robbery had extremely agitated him, for his usually florid face was now quite pale.

“What is this I hear? what has happened?” he said to the clerks, who respectfully stood aside when he entered the room.

The sound of M. Fauvel’s voice inspired the cashier with the factitious energy of a great crisis. The dreaded and decisive moment had come; he arose, and advanced toward his chief.

“Monsieur,” he began, “having, as you know, a payment to make this morning, I yesterday drew from the Bank of France three hundred and fifty thousand francs.”

“Why yesterday, monsieur?” interrupted the banker. “I think I have a hundred times ordered you to wait until