"What makes you think that?"
The detective smiled, as if the question seemed foolish to him.
"Don't you recollect that the envelope of the letter addressed by
Mademoiselle Courtois to her family to announce her suicide bore the
Paris postmark, and that of the branch office of Rue St. Lazare? Now
listen to this: On leaving her aunt's house, Laurence must have gone
directly to Tremorel's apartments, the address of which he had given
her, and where he had promised to meet her on Thursday morning. She
wrote the letter, then, in his apartments. Can we admit that she had the
presence of mind to post the letter in another quarter than that in
which she was? It is at least probable that she was ignorant of the
terrible reasons which Tremorel had to fear a search and pursuit. Had
Hector foresight enough to suggest this trick to her? No, for if he
wasn't a fool he would have told her to post the letter somewhere
outside of Paris. It is therefore scarcely possible that it was posted
anywhere else than at the nearest branch office."
These suppositions were so simple that M. Plantat wondered he had not
thought of them before. But men do not see clearly in affairs in which
they are deeply interested; passion dims the eyes, as heat in a room
dims a pair of spectacles. He had lost, with his coolness, a part of his
clearsightedness. His anxiety was very great; for he thought M. Lecoq
had a singular mode of keeping his promise.
"It seems to me," he could not help remarking, "that if you wish to keep
Hector from trial, the men you have summoned together will be more
embarrassing than useful."
M. Lecoq thought that his guest's tone and look betrayed a certain
doubt, and was irritated by it.
"Do you distrust me, Monsieur Plantat?"
The old man tried to protest.
"Believe me--"
"You have my word," resumed M. Lecoq, "and if you knew me better you
would know that I always keep it when I have given it. I have told you
that I would do my best to save Mademoiselle Laurence; but remember that
I have promised you my assistance, not absolute success. Let me, then,
take such measures as I think best."
So saying, he rang for Janouille.
"Here's a letter," said he when she appeared, "which must be sent to Job
at once."
"I will carry it."
"By no means. You will be pleased to remain here and wait for the men
that I sent out this morning. As they come in, send them to the wine
merchant's at the corner of the Rue des Martyrs; you know it--opposite
the church. They'll find a numerous company there."
As he gave his orders, he took off his gown, assumed a long black coat,
and carefully adjusted his wig.
"Will Monsieur be back this evening?" asked Janouille.
"I don't know."
"And if anybody comes from over yonder?"
"Over yonder" with a detective, always means "the house"--otherwise the
prefecture of police.
"Say that I am out on the Corbeil affair."
M. Lecoq was soon ready. He had the air, physiognomy, and manners of a
highly respectable chief clerk of fifty. Gold spectacles, an umbrella,
everything about him exhaled an odor of the ledger.
"Now," said he to M. Plantat. "Let's hurry away." Goulard, who had made
a hearty breakfast, was waiting for his hero in the dining-room.
"Ah ha, old fellow," said M. Lecoq. "So you've had a few words with my
wine. How do you find it?"
"Delicious, my chief; perfect--that is to say, a true nectar."
"It's cheered you up, I hope."
"Oh, yes, my chief."
"Then you may follow us a few steps and mount guard at the door of the
house where you see us go in. I shall probably have to confide a pretty
little girl to your care whom you will carry to Monsieur Domini. And
open your eyes; for she's a sly creature, and very apt to inveigle you
on the way and slip through your fingers."
They went out, and Janouille stoutly barricaded herself behind them.