The Mystery of Orcival, Émile Gaboriau [fiction novels to read TXT] 📗

have found her and brought her safely to Corbeil.”

He rose at these words, took his cane and hat, and turning to the judge, said:

“Before retiring⁠—”

“Yes, I know,” interrupted M. Domini, “you want a warrant to arrest Hector de Trémorel.”

“I do, as you are now of my opinion that he is still alive.”

“I am sure of it.”

M. Domini opened his portfolio and wrote off a warrant as follows:

“By the law:

“We, judge of instruction of the first tribunal, etc., considering articles 91 and 94 of the code of criminal instruction, command and ordain to all the agents of the police to arrest, in conformity with the law, one Hector de Trémorel, etc.”

When he had finished, he said:

“Here it is, and may you succeed in speedily finding this great criminal.”

“Oh, he’ll find him,” cried the Corbeil policeman.

“I hope so, at least. As to how I shall go to work, I don’t know yet. I will arrange my plan of battle tonight.”

The detective then took leave of M. Domini and retired, followed by M. Plantat. The doctor remained with the judge to make arrangements for Sauvresy’s exhumation.

M. Lecoq was just leaving the courthouse when he felt himself pulled by the arm. He turned and found that it was Goulard who came to beg his favor and to ask him to take him along, persuaded that after having served under so great a captain he must inevitably become a famous man himself. M. Lecoq had some difficulty in getting rid of him; but he at length found himself alone in the street with the old justice of the peace.

“It is late,” said the latter. “Would it be agreeable to you to partake of another modest dinner with me, and accept my cordial hospitality?”

“I am chagrined to be obliged to refuse you,” replied M. Lecoq. “But I ought to be in Paris this evening.”

“But I⁠—in fact, I⁠—was very anxious to talk to you⁠—about⁠—”

“About Mademoiselle Laurence?”

“Yes; I have a plan, and if you would help me⁠—”

M. Lecoq affectionately pressed his friend’s hand.

“I have only known you a few hours,” said he, “and yet I am as devoted to you as I would be to an old friend. All that is humanly possible for me to do to serve you, I shall certainly do.”

“But where shall I see you? They expect me today at Orcival.”

“Very well; tomorrow morning at nine, at my rooms. No⁠—Rue Montmartre.”

“A thousand thanks; I shall be there.”

When they had reached the Belle Image they separated.

XXIV

Nine o’clock had just struck in the belfry of the church of St. Eustache, when M. Plantat reached Rue Montmartre, and entered the house bearing the number which M. Lecoq had given him.

“Monsieur Lecoq?” said he to an old woman who was engaged in getting breakfast for three large cats which were mewing around her. The woman scanned him with a surprised and suspicious air. M. Plantat, when he was dressed up, had much more the appearance of a fine old gentleman than of a country attorney; and though the detective received many visits from all sorts of people, it was rarely that the denizens of the Faubourg Saint Germaine rung his bell.

“Monsieur Lecoq’s apartments,” answered the old woman, “are on the third story, the door facing the stairs.”

The justice of the peace slowly ascended the narrow, ill-lighted staircase, which in its dark corners was almost dangerous. He was thinking of the strange step he was about to take. An idea had occurred to him, but he did not know whether it were practicable, and at all events he needed the aid and advice of the detective. He was forced to disclose his most secret thoughts, as it were, to confess himself; and his heart beat fast. The door opposite the staircase on the third story was not like other doors; it was of plain oak, thick, without mouldings, and fastened with iron bars. It would have looked like a prison door had not its sombreness been lightened by a heavily colored engraving of a cock crowing, with the legend “Always Vigilant.” Had the detective put his coat of arms up there? Was it not more likely that one of his men had done it? After examining the door more than a minute, and hesitating like a youth before his beloved’s gate, he rang the bell. A creaking of locks responded, and through the narrow bars of the peephole he saw the hairy face of an old crone.

“What do you want?” said the woman, in a deep, bass voice.

“Monsieur Lecoq.”

“What do you want of him?”

“He made an appointment with me for this morning.”

“Your name and business?”

“Monsieur Plantat, justice of the peace at Orcival.”

“All right. Wait.”

The peephole was closed and the old man waited.

“Peste!” growled he. “Everybody can’t get in here, it seems.” Hardly had this reflection passed through his mind when the door opened with a noise as of chains and locks. He entered, and the old crone, after leading him through a dining-room whose sole furniture was a table and six chairs, introduced him to a large room, half toilet-room and half working-room, lighted by two windows looking on the court, and guarded by strong, close bars.

“If you will take the trouble to sit,” said the servant, “Monsieur Lecoq will soon be here; he is giving orders to one of his men.”

But M. Plantat did not take a seat; he preferred to examine the curious apartment in which he found himself. The whole of one side of the wall was taken up with a long rack, where hung the strangest and most incongruous suits of clothes. There were costumes belonging to all grades of society; and on some wooden pegs above, wigs of all colors were hanging; while boots and shoes of various styles were ranged on the floor. A toilet-table, covered with powders, essences, and paints, stood between the fireplace and the window. On the other side of the room was a bookcase full of scientific works, especially of physic and chemistry. The most singular piece of furniture in the apartment, however,