The Clique of Gold, Emile Gaboriau [if you liked this book .txt] 📗

for a couple of hours, between the time when you first met him and the visit you paid him afterwards, he might very well have improvised a new domicile for himself.”

“Ah! I did not lie, sir. When dinner was over, I had lost my consciousness, and I did not get wide awake again till noon on the next day. Chevassat had the whole night and next morning.”

Then, as a suspicion suddenly flashed through Crochard’s mind, he exclaimed,—

“Ah, the brigand! Why did he urge me never to write to him otherwise than ‘to be called for’?”

The magistrate had turned to his clerk.

“Go down,” he said, “and see if any of the merchants in town have a Paris Directory.”

The clerk went off like an arrow, and appeared promptly back again with the volume in question. The magistrate hastened to look up the address given by the prisoner, and found it entered thus: “Langlois, sumptuous apartments for families and single persons. Superior attendance.”

“I was almost sure of it,” he said to himself.

Then handing Daniel the paper on which the words “University” and “Street” could be deciphered, he asked,—

“Do you know that handwriting, M. Champcey?”

Too full of the lawyer’s shrewd surmises to express any surprise, Daniel looked at the words, and said coolly,—

“That is Maxime de Brevan’s handwriting.”

A rush of blood colored instantly the pale face of Crochard. He was furious at the idea of having been duped by his accomplice, by the instigator of the crime he had committed, and for which he would probably never have received the promised reward.

“Ah, the brigand!” he exclaimed. “And I, who was very near not denouncing him at all!”

A slight smile passed over the lawyer’s face. His end had been attained. He had foreseen this wrath on the part of the prisoner; he had prepared it carefully, and caused it to break out fully; for he knew it would bring him full light on the whole subject.

“To cheat me, me!” Crochard went on with extraordinary vehemence,—“to cheat a friend, an old comrade! Ah the rascal! But he sha’n’t go to paradise, if I can help it! Let them cut my throat, I don’t mind it; I shall be quite content even, provided I see his throat cut first.”

“He has not even been arrested yet.”

“But nothing is easier than to catch him, sir. He must be uneasy at not hearing from me; and I am sure he is going every day to the post-office to inquire if there are no letters yet for M. X. O. X. 88. I can write to him. Do you want me to write to him? I can tell him that I have once more missed it, and that I have been caught even, but that the police have found out nothing, and that they have set me free again. I am sure, after that, the scamp will keep quiet; and the police will have nothing to do but to take the omnibus, and arrest him at his lodgings.”

The magistrate had allowed the prisoner to give free vent to his fury, knowing full well by experience how intensely criminals hate those of their accomplices by whom they find themselves betrayed. And he was in hopes that the rage of this man might suggest a new idea, or furnish him with new facts. When he saw he was not likely to gain much, he said,—

“Justice cannot stoop to such expedients.” Then he added, seeing how disappointed Crochard looked,—

“You had better try and recollect all you can. Have you forgotten or concealed nothing that might assist us in carrying out this examination?”

“No; I think I have told you every thing.”

“You cannot furnish any additional evidence of the complicity of Justin Chevassat, of his efforts to tempt you to commit this crime, or of the forgery he committed in getting up a false set of papers for you?”

“No! Ah, he is a clever one, and leaves no trace behind him that could convict him. But, strong as he is, if we could be confronted in court, I’d undertake, just by looking at him, to get the truth out of him somehow.”

“You shall be confronted, I promise you.”

The prisoner seemed to be amazed.

“Are you going to send for Chevassat?” he asked.

“No. You will be sent home, to be tried there.”

A flash of joy shone in the eyes of the wretch. He knew the voyage would not be a pleasant one; but the prospect of being tried in France was as good as an escape from capital punishment to his mind. Besides, he delighted in advance in the idea of seeing Chevassat in court, seated by his side as a fellow-prisoner.

“Then,” he asked again, “they will send me home?”

“On the first national vessel that leaves Saigon.”

The magistrate went and sat down at the table where the clerk was writing, and rapidly ran his eye over the long examination, seeing if anything had been overlooked. When he had done, he said,—

“Now give me as accurate a description of Justin Chevassat as you can.”

Crochard passed his hand repeatedly over his forehead; and then, his eyes staring at empty space, and his neck stretched out, as if he saw a phantom which he had suddenly called up, he said,—

“Chevassat is a man of my age; but he does not look more than twenty seven or eight. That is what made me hesitate at first, when I met him on the boulevard. He is a handsome fellow, very well made, and wears all his beard. He looks clever, with soft eyes; and his face inspires confidence at once.”

“Ah! that is Maxime all over,” broke in Daniel.

And, suddenly remembering something, he called Lefloch. The sailor started, and almost mechanically assumed the respectful position of a sailor standing before his officer.

“Lieutenant?” he said.

“Since I have been sick, they have brought part of my baggage here; have they not?”

“Yes, lieutenant, all of it.”

“Well. Go and look for a big red book with silver clasps. You have no doubt seen me look at it often.”

“Yes, lieutenant; and I know where it is.”

And he immediately opened one of the trunks that were piled up in a corner of the room, and took from it a photograph album, which, upon a sign from Daniel, he handed to the lawyer.

“Will you please,” said Daniel at the same time, “ask the prisoner, if, among the sixty or seventy portraits in that book, he knows any one?”