File No. 113, Emile Gaboriau [ink book reader TXT] 📗

“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 his seeing me.”

“Yes, I know. You will climb the little wall separating the Archangel from the wine-merchant’s yard, and keep along the stationer’s area, until you reach the Rue de la Huchette.”

Poor Joseph looked as if he had just received a bucket of ice-water upon his head.

“Exactly the way I was going, patron,” he gasped out. “I heard that you knew every plank and door of all the houses in Paris, and it certainly must be so.”

The fat man made no reply to Joseph’s admiring remarks. He was thinking how he could catch Clameran.

As to the cashier, he listened wonderingly, watching these strangers, who seemed determined to reinstate him in public opinion, and punish his enemies, while he himself stood by powerless and bewildered. What their motives for befriending him could be, he vainly tried to discover.

“I will tell you what I can do,” said Joseph after deep thought.

“What is it?”

“I can innocently walk out of the front door, and loaf along the street until I reach the Hotel du Louvre.”

“And then?”

“Dame! Clameran will come in and question Mme. Alexandre, whom you can instruct beforehand; and she is smart enough to put any sharper off the track.”

“Bad plan!” pronounced M. Verduret decidedly; “a scamp so compromised as Clameran is not easily put off the track; now his eyes are opened, he will be pretty hard to catch.”

Suddenly, in a brief tone of authority which admitted of no contradiction, the fat man said:

“I have a way. Has Clameran, since he found that his papers had been searched, seen Lagors?”

“No, patron.”

“Perhaps he has written to him?”

“I’ll bet you my head he has not. Having your orders to watch his correspondence, I invented a little system which informs me every time he touches a pen; during the last twenty-four hours the pens have not been touched.”

“Clameran went out yesterday.”

“But the man who followed him says he wrote nothing on the way.”

“Then we have time yet!” cried Verduret. “Hurry! Hurry! I give you fifteen minutes to make yourself a head; you know the sort; I will watch the rascal until you come up.”

The delighted Joseph disappeared in a twinkling; while Prosper and M. Verduret remained at the window observing Clameran, who, according to the movements of the crowd, was sometimes lost to sight, and sometimes just in front of the window, but was evidently determined not to quit his post until he had obtained the information he sought.

“Why do you devote yourself exclusively to the marquis?” asked Prosper.

“Because, my friend,” replied M. Verduret, “because—that is my business, and not yours.”

Joseph Dubois had been granted a quarter of an hour in which to metamorphose himself; before ten minutes had elapsed he reappeared.

The dandified coachman with Bergami whiskers, red vest, and foppish manners, was replaced by a sinister-looking individual, whose very appearance was enough to scare any rogue.

His black cravat twisted around a paper collar, and ornamented by an imitation diamond pin; his long-tailed black boots and heavy cane, revealed the employee of the Rue de Jerusalem, as plainly as the shoulder-straps mark a soldier.

Joseph Dubois had vanished forever; and from his livery, phoenix-like and triumphant, arose the radiant Fanferlot, surnamed the Squirrel.

When Fanferlot entered the room, Prosper uttered a cry of surprise and almost fright.

He recognized the man who had assisted the commissary of police to examine the bank on the day of the robbery.

M. Verduret examined his aide with a satisfied look, and said:

“Not bad! There is enough of the police-court air about you to alarm even an