“If I were to offer you ten thousand francs?”
“A year’s income.”
“If I offered you fifteen thousand!”
Goudar made no reply; but his eyes spoke.
“It is a most interesting case, this case of M. de Boiscoran,” continued
M. Folgat, “and such as does not occur often. The man who should expose
the emptiness of the accusation would make a great reputation for
himself.”
“Would he make friends also at the bar?”
“I admit he would not.”
The detective shook his head.
“Well, I confess,” he said, “I do not work for glory, nor from love of
my art. I know very well that vanity is the great motive-power with
some of my colleagues; but I am more practical. I have never liked my
profession; and, if I continue to practise it, it is because I have not
the money to go into any other. It drives my wife to despair, besides:
she is only half alive as long as I am away; and she trembles every
morning for fear I may be brought home with a knife between my
shoulders.”
M. Folgat had listened attentively; but at the same time he had pulled
out a pocket-book, which looked decidedly plethoric, and placed it on
the table.
“With fifteen thousand francs,” he said, “a man may do something.”
“That is true. There is a piece of land for sale adjoining my garden,
which would suit me exactly. Flowers bring a good price in Paris, and
that business would please my wife. Fruit, also yields a good profit.”
The advocate knew now that he had caught his man.
“Remember, too, my dear Goudar, that, if you succeed, these fifteen
thousand francs would only be a part payment. They might, perhaps,
double the sum. M. de Boiscoran is the most liberal of men, and he would
take pleasure in royally rewarding the man who should have saved him.”
As he spoke, he opened the pocket-book, and drew from it fifteen
thousand-franc notes, which he spread out on the table.
“To any one but to you,” he went on, “I should hesitate to pay such
a sum in advance. Another man might take the money, and never trouble
himself about the affair. But I know your uprightness; and, if you give
me your word in return for the notes, I shall be satisfied. Come, shall
it be so?”
The detective was evidently not a little excited; for, self-possessed
as he was, he had turned somewhat pale. He hesitated, handled the
bank-notes, and then, all of a sudden, said,--
“Wait two minutes.”
He got up instantly, and ran towards the house.
“Is he going to consult his wife?” M. Folgat asked himself.
He did so; for the next moment they appeared at the other end of the
walk, engaged in a lively discussion. However, the discussion did not
last long. Goudar came back to the bower, and said,--
“Agreed! I am your man!”
The advocate was delighted, and shook his hand.
“Thank you!” he cried; “for, with your assistance, I am almost sure
of success. Unfortunately, we have no time to lose. When can you go to
work?”
“This moment. Give me time to change my costume; and I am at your
service. You will have to give me the keys of the house in Passy.”
“I have them here in my pocket.”
“Well, then let us go there at once; for I must, first of all,
reconnoitre the ground. And you shall see if it takes me long to dress.”
In less than fifteen minutes he reappeared in a long overcoat, with
gloves on, looking, for all the world, like one of those retired
grocers who have made a fortune, and settled somewhere outside of the
corporation of Paris, displaying their idleness in broad daylight, and
repenting forever that they have given up their occupation.
“Let us go,” he said to the lawyer.
After having bowed to Mrs. Goudar, who accompanied them with a radiant
smile, they got into the carriage, calling out to the driver,--
“Vine Street, Passy, No. 23.”
This Vine Street is a curious street, leading nowhere, little known, and
so deserted, that the grass grows everywhere. It stretches out long and
dreary, is hilly, muddy, scarcely paved, and full of holes, and looks
much more like a wretched village lane than like a street belonging
to Paris. No shops, only a few homes, but on the right and the left
interminable walls, overtopped by lofty trees.
“Ah! the place is well chosen for mysterious rendezvouses,” growled
Goudar. “Too well chosen, I dare say; for we shall pick up no
information here.”
The carriage stopped before a small door, in a thick wall, which bore
the traces of the two sieges in a number of places.
“Here is No. 23,” said the driver; “but I see no house.”
It could not be seen from the street; but, when they got in, Mr. Folgat
and Goudar saw it, rising in the centre of an immense garden, simple and
pretty, with a double porch, a slate roof, and newly-painted blinds.
“Great God!” exclaimed the detective, “what a place for a gardener!”
And M. Folgat felt so keenly the man’s ill-concealed desire, that he at
once said,--
“If we save M. de Boiscoran, I am sure he will not keep this house.”
“Let us go in,” cried the detective, in a voice which revealed all his
intense desire to succeed.
Unfortunately, Jacques de Boiscoran had spoken but too truly, when he
said that no trace was left of former days. Furniture, carpets, all
was new; and Goudar and M. Folgat in vain explored the four rooms down
stairs, and the four rooms up stairs, the basement, where the kitchen
was, and finally the garret.
“We shall find nothing here,” declared the detective. “To satisfy my
conscience, I shall come and spend an afternoon here; but now we have
more important business. Let us go and see the neighbors!”
There are not many neighbors in Vine Street.
A teacher and a nurseryman, a locksmith and a liveryman, five or
six owners of houses, and the inevitable keeper of a wine-shop and
restaurant, these were the whole population.
“We shall soon make the rounds,” said Goudar, after having ordered the
coachman to wait for them at the end of the street.
Neither the head master nor his assistants knew any thing. The
nurseryman had heard it said that No. 23 belonged to an Englishman; but
he had never seen him, and did not even know his name.
The locksmith knew that he was called Francis Burnett. He had done
some work for him, for which he had been well paid, and thus he had
frequently seen him; but it was so long since, that he did not think he
would recognize him.
“We are unlucky,” said M. Folgat, after this visit.
The memory of the liveryman was more trustworthy. He said he knew the
Englishman of No. 23 very well, having driven him three or four
times; and the description he gave of him answered fully to Jacques de
Boiscoran. He also remembered that one evening, when the weather was
wretched, Sir Burnett had come himself to order a carriage. It was for
a lady, who had got in alone, and who had been driven to the Place de la
Madeleine. But it was a dark night; the lady wore a thick veil; he had
not been able to distinguish her features, and all he could say was that
she looked above medium height.
“It is always the same story,” said Goudar. “But the wine-merchant ought
to be best informed. If I were alone I would breakfast there.”
“I shall breakfast with you,” said M. Folgat.
They did so, and they did wisely.
The wine-merchant did not know much; but his waiter, who had been
with him five or six years, knew Sir Burnett, as everybody called
the Englishman, by sight, and was quite well acquainted with the
servant-girl, Suky Wood. While he was bringing in breakfast, he told
them all he knew.
Suky, he said, was a tall, strapping girl, with hair red enough to set
her bonnets on fire, and graceful enough to be mistaken for a heavy
dragoon in female disguise. He had often had long talks with her when
she came to fetch some ready-made dish, or to buy some beer, of which
she was very fond. She told him she was very pleased with her place, as
she got plenty of money, and had, so to say, nothing to do, being left
alone in the house for nine months in the year. From her the waiter had
also learned that Sir Burnett must have another house, and that he came
to Vine Street only to receive visits from a lady.
This lady troubled Suky very much. She declared she had never been able
to see the end of her nose even, so very cautious was she in all her
movements; but she intended to see her in spite of all.
“And you may be sure she managed to do it some time or other,” Goudar
whispered into M. Folgat’s ear.
Finally they learned from this waiter, that Suky had been very intimate
with the servant of an old gentleman who lived quite alone in No. 27.
“We must see her,” said Goudar.
Luckily the girl’s master had just gone out, and she was alone in the
house. At first she was a little frightened at being called upon and
questioned by two unknown men; but the detective knew how to reassure
her very quickly, and, as she was a great talker, she confirmed all the
waiter at the restaurant had told them, and added some details.
Suky had been very intimate with her; she had never hesitated to tell
her that Burnett was not an Englishman; that his name was not Burnett,
and that he was concealing himself in Vine Street under a false name,
for the purpose of meeting there his lady-love, who was a grand, fine
lady, and marvellously beautiful. Finally, at the outbreak of the war,
Suky had told her that she was going back to England to her relations.
When they left the old bachelor’s house, Goudar said to the young
advocate,--
“We have obtained but little information, and the jurymen would pay
little attention to it; but there is enough of it to confirm, at least
in part, M. de Boiscoran’s statement. We can prove that he met a lady
here who had the greatest interest in remaining unknown. Was this, as he
says, the Countess Claudieuse? We might find this out from Suky; for she
has seen her, beyond all doubt. Hence we must hunt up Suky. And now, let
us take our carriage, and go to headquarters. You can wait for me at the
café near the Palais de Justice. I shall not be away more than a quarter
of an hour.”
It took him, however, a good hour and a half; M. Folgat was beginning to
be troubled, when he at last reappeared, looking very well pleased.
“Waiter, a glass of beer!” he said.