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

longer,” resumed M. Lecoq, “for my orders will depend on a report which I am expecting.” He turned to the men whom he had sent out among the upholsterers:

“Which of you was successful?”

“I, Monsieur,” replied a big white-faced fellow, with insignificant mustaches.

“What, you again, Palot? really, my lad, you are lucky. Step into this side room⁠—first, though, order a bottle of wine, and ask the proprietor to see to it that we are not disturbed.”

These orders were soon executed, and M. Plantat being duly ensconced with them in the little room, the detective turned the key.

“Speak up now,” said he to Palot, “and be brief.”

“I showed the photograph to at least a dozen upholsterers without any result; but at last a merchant in the Faubourg St. Germain, named Rech, recognized it.”

“Tell me just what he said, if you can.”

“He told me that it was the portrait of one of his customers. A month ago this customer came to him to buy a complete set of furniture⁠—drawing-room, dining-room, bedroom, and the rest⁠—for a little house which he had just rented. He did not beat him down at all, and only made one condition to the purchase, and that was, that everything should be ready and in place, and the curtains and carpets put in, within three weeks from that time; that is a week ago last Monday.”

“And what was the sum-total of the purchase?”

“Eighteen thousand francs, half paid down in advance, and half on the day of delivery.”

“And who carried the last half of the money to the upholsterer?”

“A servant.”

“What name did this customer give?”

“He called himself Monsieur James Wilson; but Monsieur Rech said he did not seem like an Englishman.”

“Where does he live?”

“The furniture was carried to a small house, No. 34 Rue St. Lazare, near the Havre station.”

M. Lecoq’s face, which had up to that moment worn an anxious expression, beamed with joy. He felt the natural pride of a captain who has succeeded in his plans for the enemy’s destruction. He tapped the old justice of the peace familiarly on the shoulder, and pronounced a single word:

“Nipped!”

Palot shook his head.

“It isn’t certain,” said he.

“Why?”

“You may imagine, Monsieur Lecoq, that when I got the address, having some time on my hands, I went to reconnoitre the house.”

“Well?”

“The tenant’s name is really Wilson, but it’s not the man of the photograph, I’m certain.”

M. Plantat gave a groan of disappointment, but M. Lecoq was not so easily discouraged.

“How did you find out?”

“I pumped one of the servants.”

“Confound you!” cried M. Plantat. “Perhaps you roused suspicions.”

“Oh, no,” answered M. Lecoq. “I’ll answer for him. Palot is a pupil of mine. Explain yourself, Palot.”

“Recognizing the house⁠—an elegant affair it is, too⁠—I said to myself: ‘I’ faith, here’s the cage; let’s see if the bird is in it.’ I luckily happened to have a napoleon in my pocket; and I slipped it without hesitation into the drain which led from the house to the street-gutter.”

“Then you rang?”

“Exactly. The porter⁠—there is a porter⁠—opened the door, and with my most vexed air I told him how, in pulling out my handkerchief, I had dropped a twenty-franc piece in the drain, and begged him to lend me something to try to get it out. He lent me a poker and took another himself, and we got the money out with no difficulty; I began to jump about as if I were delighted, and begged him to let me treat him to a glass of wine.”

“Not bad.”

“Oh, Monsieur Lecoq, it is one of your tricks, you know. My porter accepted my invitation, and we soon got to be the best friends in the world over some wine in a shop just across the street from the house. We were having a jolly talk together when, all of a sudden, I leaned over as if I had just espied something on the floor, and picked up⁠—the photograph, which I had dropped and soiled a little with my foot. ‘What,’ cried I, ‘a portrait?’ My new friend took it, looked at it, and didn’t seem to recognize it. Then, to be certain, I said, ‘He’s a very good-looking fellow, ain’t he now? Your master must be some such a man.’ But he said no, that the photograph was of a man who was bearded, while his master was as clean-faced as an abbe. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘my master is an American; he gives us our orders in French, but Madame and he always talk English together.’ ”

M. Lecoq’s eye glistened as Palot proceeded.

“Trémorel speaks English, doesn’t he?” asked he of M. Plantat.

“Quite well; and Laurence too.”

“If that is so, we are on the right track, for we know that Trémorel shaved his beard off on the night of the murder. We can go on⁠—”

Palot meanwhile seemed a little uneasy at not receiving the praise he expected.

“My lad,” said M. Lecoq, turning to him, “I think you have done admirably, and a good reward shall prove it to you. Being ignorant of what we know, your conclusions were perfectly right. But let’s go to the house at once; have you got a plan of the ground-floor?”

“Yes, and also of the first floor above. The porter was not dumb, and so he gave me a good deal of information about his master and mistress, though he has only been there two days. The lady is dreadfully melancholy, and cries all the time.”

“We know it; the plan⁠—”

“Below, there is a large and high paved arch for the carriages to pass through; on the other side is a good-sized courtyard, at the end of which are the stable and carriage-house. The porter’s lodge is on the left of the arch; on the right a glass door opens on a staircase with six steps, which conducts to a vestibule into which the drawing-room, dining-room, and two other little rooms open. The chambers are on the first floor, a study, a⁠—”

“Enough,” M. Lecoq said, “my plan is made.”

And rising abruptly, he opened the door, and followed by M. Plantat and Palot, went into the large room. All the men rose at his