The examination was now over, and, the dispositions having been drawn
up and signed, the investigating officials remained for some time in
conference.
“It lies with those three, of course—the two women and the Italian.
They are jointly, conjointly concerned, although the exact degrees of
guilt cannot quite be apportioned,” said the detective.
“And all three are at large!” added the Judge.
“If you will issue warrants for arrest, M. le Juge, we can take
them—two of them at any rate—when we choose.”
“That should be at once,” remarked the Commissary, eager, as usual, for
decisive action.
“Very well. Let us proceed in that way. Prepare the warrants,” said the
Judge, turning to his clerk. “And you,” he went on, addressing M.
Floçon, “dear colleague, will you see to their execution? Madame is at
the Hôtel Madagascar; that will be easy. The Italian Ripaldi we shall
hear of through your inspector Block. As for the maid, Hortense
Petitpré, we must search for her. That too, sir, you will of course
undertake?”
“I will charge myself with it, certainly. My man should be here by now,
and I will instruct him at once. Ask for him,” said M. Floçon to the
guard whom he called in.
“The inspector is there,” said the guard, pointing to the outer room.
“He has just returned.”
“Returned? You mean arrived.”
“No, monsieur, returned. It is Block, who left an hour or more ago.”
“Block? Then something has happened—he has some special information,
some great news! Shall we see him, M. le Juge?”
When Block appeared, it was evident that something had gone wrong with
him. His face wore a look of hot, flurried excitement, and his manner
was one of abject, cringing self-abasement.
“What is it?” asked the little Chief, sharply. “You are alone. Where is
your man?”
“Alas, monsieur! how shall I tell you? He has gone—disappeared! I have
lost him!”
“Impossible! You cannot mean it! Gone, now, just when we most want him?
Never!”
“It is so, unhappily.”
“Idiot! _Triple_ idiot! You shall be dismissed, discharged from this
hour. You are a disgrace to the force.” M. Floçon raved furiously at
his abashed subordinate, blaming him a little too harshly and unfairly,
forgetting that until quite recently there had been no strong suspicion
against the Italian. We are apt at times to expect others to be
intuitively possessed of knowledge that has only come to us at a much
later date.
“How was it? Explain. Of course you have been drinking. It is that, or
your great gluttony. You were beguiled into some eating-house.”
“Monsieur, you shall hear the exact truth. When we started more than an
hour ago, our fiacre took the usual route, by the Quais and along the
riverside. My gentleman made himself most pleasant.”
“No doubt,” growled the Chief.
“Offered me an excellent cigar, and talked—not about the affair, you
understand—but of Paris, the theatres, the races, Longchamps, Auteuil,
the grand restaurants. He knew everything, all Paris, like his pocket.
I was much surprised, but he told me his business often brought him
here. He had been employed to follow up several great Italian
criminals, and had made a number of important arrests in Paris.”
“Get on, get on! come to the essential.”
“Well, in the middle of the journey, when we were about the Pont Henri
Quatre, he said, ‘Figure to yourself, my friend, that it is now near
noon, that nothing has passed my lips since before daylight at Laroche.
What say you? Could you eat a mouthful, just a scrap on the thumb-nail?
Could you?’”
“And you—greedy, gormandizing beast!—you agreed?”
“My faith, monsieur, I too was hungry. It was my regular hour. Well—at
any rate, for my sins I accepted. We entered the first restaurant, that
of the ‘Reunited Friends,’ you know it, perhaps, monsieur? A good
house, especially noted for tripe _à la mode de Caen_.” In spite of his
anguish, Block smacked his fat lips at the thought of this most
succulent but very greasy dish.
“How often must I tell you to get on?”
“Forgive me, monsieur, but it is all part of my story. We had oysters,
two dozen Marennes, and a glass or two of Chablis; then a good portion
of tripe, and with them a bottle, only one, monsieur, of Pontet Canet;
after that a beefsteak with potatoes and a little Burgundy, then a rum
omelet.”
“Great Heavens! you should be the fat man in a fair, not an agent of
the Detective Bureau.”
“It was all this that helped me to my destruction. He ate, this
devilish Italian, like three, and I too, I was so hungry,—forgive me,
sir,—I did my share. But by the time we reached the cheese, a fine,
ripe Camembert, had our coffee, and one thimbleful of green Chartreuse,
I was _plein jusqu’au bec_, gorged up to the beak.”
“And what of your duty, your service, pray?”
“I did think of it, monsieur, but then, he, the Italian, was just the
same as myself. He was a colleague. I had no fear of him, not till the
very last, when he played me this evil turn. I suspected nothing when
he brought out his pocketbook,—it was stuffed full, monsieur; I saw
that and my confidence increased,—called for the reckoning, and paid
with an Italian bank-note. The waiter looked doubtful at the foreign
money, and went out to consult the manager. A minute after, my man got
up, saying:
“‘There may be some trouble about changing that bank-note. Excuse me
one moment, pray.’ He went out, monsieur, and piff-paff, he was no more
to be seen.”
“Ah, _nigaud_ (ass), you are too foolish to live! Why did you not
follow him? Why let him out of your sight?”
“But, monsieur, I was not to know, was I? I was to accompany him, not
to watch him. I have done wrong, I confess. But then, who was to tell
he meant to run away?”
M. Floçon could not deny the justice of this defence. It was only now,
at the eleventh hour, that the Italian had become inculpated, and the
question of his possible anxiety to escape had never been considered.
“He was so artful,” went on Block in further extenuation of his
offence. “He left everything behind. His overcoat, stick, this book—his
own private memorandum-book seemingly—”
“Book? Hand it me,” said the Chief, and when it came into his hands he
began to turn over the leaves hurriedly.
It was a small brass-bound note-book or diary, and was full of close
writing in pencil.
“I do not understand, not more than a word here and there. It is no
doubt Italian. Do you know that language, M. le Juge?”
“Not perfectly, but I can read it. Allow me.”
He also turned over the pages, pausing to read a passage here and
there, and nodding his head from time to time, evidently struck with
the importance of the matter recorded.
Meanwhile, M. Floçon continued an angry conversation with his offending
subordinate.
“You will have to find him, Block, and that speedily, within
twenty-four hours,—to-day, indeed,—or I will break you like a stick,
and send you into the gutter. Of course, such a consummate ass as you
have proved yourself would not think of searching the restaurant or the
immediate neighbourhood, or of making inquiries as to whether he had
been seen, or as to which way he had gone?”
“Pardon me, monsieur is too hard on me. I have been unfortunate, a
victim to circumstances, still I believe I know my duty. Yes, I made
inquiries, and, what is more, I heard of him.”
“Where? how?” asked the Chief, gruffly, but obviously much interested.
“He never spoke to the manager, but walked out and let the change go.
It was a note for a hundred _lire_, a hundred francs, and the
restaurant bill was no more than seventeen francs.”
“Hah! that is greatly against him indeed.”
“He was much pressed, in a great hurry. Directly he crossed the
threshold he called the first cab and was driving away, but he was
stopped—”
“The devil! Why did they not keep him, then?”
“Stopped, but only for a moment, and accosted by a woman.”
“A woman?”
“Yes, monsieur. They exchanged but three words. He wished to pass on,
to leave her, she would not consent, then they both got into the cab
and were driven away together.”
The officials were now listening with all ears.
“Tell me,” said the Chief, “quick, this woman—what was she like? Did
you get her description?”
“Tall, slight, well formed, dressed all in black. Her face—it was a
policeman who saw her, and he said she was good-looking, dark,
brunette, black hair.”
“It is the maid herself!” cried the little Chief, springing up and
slapping his thigh in exuberant glee. “The maid! the missing maid!”