When M. Lecoq was in a hurry he walked fast. He almost ran down the Rue
Notre Dame de Lorette, so that Plantat had great difficulty in keeping
up with him; and as he went along he pursued his train of reflection,
half aloud, so that his companion caught here and there a snatch of it.
"All goes well," he muttered, "and we shall succeed. It's seldom that a
campaign which commences so well ends badly. If Job is at the wine
merchant's, and if one of my men has succeeded in his search, the crime
of Valfeuillu is solved, and in a week people will have forgotten it."
He stopped short on reaching the foot of the street opposite the church.
"I must ask you to pardon me," said he to the old justice, "for hurrying
you on so and making you one of my trade; but your assistance might have
been very useful at Madame Charman's, and will be indispensable when we
get fairly on Tremorel's track."
They went across the square and into the wine shop at the corner of the
Rue des Martyrs. Its keeper was standing behind his counter turning wine
out of a large jug into some litres, and did not seem much astonished at
seeing his new visitors. M. Lecoq was quite at home (as he was
everywhere), and spoke to the man with an air of easy familiarity.
"Aren't there six or eight men waiting for somebody here?" he asked.
"Yes, they came about an hour ago."
"Are they in the big back room?"
"Just so, Monsieur," responded the wine merchant, obsequiously.
He didn't exactly know who was talking to him, but he suspected him to
be some superior officer from the prefecture; and he was not surprised
to see that this distinguished personage knew the ins and outs of his
house. He opened the door of the room referred to without hesitation.
Ten men in various guises were drinking there and playing cards. On M.
Lecoq's entrance with M. Plantat, they respectfully got up and took off
their hats.
"Good for you, Job," said M. Lecoq to him who seemed to be their chief,
"you are prompt, and it pleases me. Your ten men will be quite enough,
for I shall have the three besides whom I sent out this morning."
M. Job bowed, happy at having pleased a master who was not very prodigal
in his praises.
"I want you to wait here a while 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, bed-room, 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 English-man."
"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.'"