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

“Monsieur Job,” said the detective, “listen attentively to what I have to say. As soon as I am gone, pay up what you owe here, and then, as I must have you all within reach, go and install yourselves in the first wine-shop on the right as you go up the Rue d’Amsterdam. Take your dinner there, for you will have time⁠—but soberly, you understand.”

He took two napoleons out of his pocket and placed them on the table, adding:

“That’s for the dinner.”

M. Lecoq and the old justice went into the street, followed closely by Palot. The detective was anxious above all to see for himself the house inhabited by Trémorel. He saw at a glance that the interior must be as Palot had described.

“That’s it, undoubtedly,” said he to M. Plantat; “we’ve got the game in our hands. Our chances at this moment are ninety to ten.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the justice, whose emotion increased as the decisive moment approached.

“Nothing, just yet, I must wait for night before I act. As it is two hours yet before dark, let’s imitate my men; I know a restaurant just by here where you can dine capitally; we’ll patronize it.”

And without awaiting a reply, he led M. Plantat to a restaurant in the Passage du Havre. But at the moment he was about to open the door, he stopped and made a signal. Palot immediately appeared.

“I give you two hours to get yourself up so that the porter won’t recognize you, and to have some dinner. You are an upholsterer’s apprentice. Now clear out; I shall wait for you here.”

M. Lecoq was right when he said that a capital dinner was to be had in the Passage du Havre; unfortunately M. Plantat was not in a state to appreciate it. As in the morning, he found it difficult to swallow anything, he was so anxious and depressed. He longed to know the detective’s plans; but M. Lecoq remained impenetrable, answering all inquiries with:

“Let me act, and trust me.”

M. Plantat’s confidence was indeed very great; but the more he reflected, the more perilous and difficult seemed the attempt to save Trémorel from a trial. The most poignant doubts troubled and tortured his mind. His own life was at stake; for he had sworn to himself that he would not survive the ruin of Laurence in being forced to confess in full court her dishonor and her love for Hector.

M. Lecoq tried hard to make his companion eat something, to take at least some soup and a glass of old Bordeaux; but he soon saw the uselessness of his efforts and went on with his dinner as if he were alone. He was very thoughtful, but any uncertainty of the result of his plans never entered his head. He drank much and often, and soon emptied his bottle of Leoville. Night having now come on the waiters began to light the chandeliers, and the two friends found themselves almost alone.

“Isn’t it time to begin?” asked the old justice, timidly.

“We have still nearly an hour,” replied M. Lecoq, consulting his watch; “but I shall make my preparations now.”

He called a waiter, and ordered a cup of coffee and writing materials.

“You see,” said he, while they were waiting to be served, “we must try to get at Laurence without Trémorel’s knowing it. We must have a ten minutes’ talk with her alone, and in the house. That is a condition absolutely necessary to our success.”

M. Plantat had evidently been expecting some immediate and decisive action, for M. Lecoq’s remark filled him with alarm.

“If that’s so,” said he mournfully, “it’s all over with our project.”

“How so?”

“Because Trémorel will not leave Laurence by herself for a moment.”

“Then I’ll try to entice him out.”

“And you, you who are usually so clear-sighted, really think that he will let himself be taken in by a trick! You don’t consider his situation at this moment. He must be a prey to boundless terrors. We know that Sauvresy’s declaration will not be found, but he does not; he thinks that perhaps it has been found, that suspicions have been aroused, and that he is already being searched for and pursued by the police.”

“I’ve considered all that,” responded M. Lecoq with a triumphant smile, “and many other things besides. Well, it isn’t easy to decoy Trémorel out of the house. I’ve been cudgelling my brain about it a good deal, and have found a way at last. The idea occurred to me just as we were coming in here. The Count de Trémorel, in an hour from now, will be in the Faubourg St. Germain. It’s true it will cost me a forgery, but you will forgive me under the circumstances. Besides, he who seeks the end must use the means.”

He took up a pen, and as he smoked his cigar, rapidly wrote the following:

Monsieur Wilson:

Four of the thousand-franc notes which you paid me are counterfeits; I have just found it out by sending them to my banker’s. If you are not here to explain the matter before ten o’clock, I shall be obliged to put in a complaint this evening before the procureur.

Rech.

“Now,” said M. Lecoq, passing the letter to his companion. “Do you comprehend?”

The old justice read it at a glance and could not repress a joyful exclamation, which caused the waiters to turn around and stare at him.

“Yes,” said he, “this letter will catch him; it’ll frighten him out of all his other terrors. He will say to himself that he might have slipped some counterfeit notes among those paid to the upholsterer, that a complaint against him will provoke an inquiry, and that he will have to prove that he is really Monsieur Wilson or he is lost.”

“So you think he’ll come out?”

“I’m sure of it, unless he has become a fool.”

“I tell you we shall succeed then, for this is the only serious obstacle⁠—”

He suddenly interrupted himself. The restaurant door opened ajar, and a man passed his head in and withdrew it immediately.

“That’s my man,” said