The very day after M. Jandidier’s disappearance, Maitre Magloire
appeared at the Palais de justice to report what he had done to the
magistrate in charge of the affair.
“Ah! there you are, Monsieur Magloire,” said the magistrate; “so you’ve
discovered something?”
“I am on the trail, monsieur.”
“Speak.”
“To begin with, Monsieur Jandidier did not leave home at half past six
o’clock, but precisely seven.”
“Precisely?”
“Precisely. I ascertained that from a clock-maker in the Rue Saint
Denis, who is sure of it, because while passing his shop, Monsieur
Jandidier took out his watch to see if it was exactly like the
clock over the door. He held an unlighted cigar in his mouth. Having
discovered this last circumstance, I said to myself, ‘I have it! He’ll
light his cigar somewhere.’ I reasoned correctly; he went into a retail
shop on the Boulevard du Temple, whose mistress knows him very well. The
fact was impressed on the woman’s memory because he always smoked sou
cigars, and this time bought London ones.”
“How did he appear?”
“Absent-minded, the shop-keeper told me. It was from her I found out
that he often went to the Café Ture. I entered it, and was told that he
had been there Saturday evening. He took two small glasses of brandy,
and talked with his friends. He seemed dull. ‘The gentleman talked all
the time about life insurance policies,’ the waiter told me. At half
past eight o’clock our man left the with one of his friends, a merchant
in the neighborhood, Monsieur Blandureau. I instantly went to this
gentleman, who informed me that he walked up the boulevard with Monsieur
Jandidier, who left him at the corner of the Rue Richelieu, pleading a
business engagement. He was not in his usual spirits, and seemed to be
assailed by the gloomiest presentiments.”
“Very well, so far,” murmured the magistrate.
“On leaving Monsieur Blandureau, I went to the Rue Roi-de-Sicile to
ascertain from somebody in the house whether Monsieur Jandidier had any
customers or friends in the Rue Richelieu, but no one lived there except
his tailor. I therefore proceeded hap-hazard to the tailor. He saw our
man Saturday. Monsieur Jandidier called on him after nine o’clock to
order a pair of trousers. While his measure was being taken, he noticed
that one of his vest buttons was nearly off, and asked to have it sewed
on. He was obliged to take off his overcoat while the trifling repair
was made, and as at the same time he removed the contents of the side
pocket, the tailor noticed several hundred-franc bank-bills.”
“Ah!” that’s a clew, “He had a considerable sum of money with him?”
“Considerable, no; but tolerably large. The tailor estimates it at
twelve or fourteen hundred francs.”
“Go on,” said the magistrate.
“While his vest was being repaired, Monsieur Jandidier complained of
sudden indisposition, and sent a little boy for a carriage, saying that
he was obliged to go to one of his workmen, who lived a long distance
off. Unfortunately, the lad had forgotten the number of the carriage.
He only recollected that it had yellow wheels, and was drawn by a large
black horse. The vehicle was found. A circular sent to all who kept
carriages for hire, put me on the track. I learned this morning that
it was No. 6007. The driver, on being questioned, distinctly remembered
having been stopped Saturday evening, about nine o’clock, in the Rue
Richelieu, by a little boy, and waiting ten minutes in front of the
Maison Gouin. The description he gave of his fare exactly suits our
man, and he recognized the photograph among five different ones I showed
him.”
Maitre Magloire stopped. He wanted to enjoy the approval visible in the
magistrate’s expression.
“Monsieur Jandidier,” he continued, “ordered the driver to take him to
No. 48 Rue d’Arras-Saint-Victor. In this house lives a workman named
Jules Tarot, employed by Monsieur Jandidier.”
M. Magloire’s way of pronouncing this name was intended to rouse the
magistrate’s attention, and did so.
“You have suspicions?” he asked.
“Not exactly, but this is the story. Monsieur Jandidier dismissed the
carriage at the Rue d’Arras and went to Tarot’s about ten o’clock. At
eleven the employer and workman came out together. The latter did not
return until midnight, and here I lose all trace of my man. Of course I
didn’t question Tarot, for fear of putting him on his guard.”
“Who is this Jules Tarot?”
“A workman in mother-of-pearl, a man who polishes shells on a grindstone
to make them perfectly iridescent. He’s a skillful fellow, and, assisted
by his wife, to whom he has taught his trade, can make nearly a hundred
francs a week.”
“They are in easy circumstances, then?”
“Oh! no. They are both young, they have no children, they are Parisians.
Deuce take it, they enjoy themselves. Monday regularly carries away what
the other days bring.”