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As he passed through the room where the detectives and police were, the man with the gold spectacles said:
‘Be brave, M. Bertomy, if you are innocent we will help you.’
Prosper, in surprise, asked the warder who the gentleman was.
The warder replied:
‘Surely you know the great Lecoq! If your case had been in his hands instead of Fanferlot’s it would have been settled long ago. But he seems to know you.’
‘I never saw him till I saw him here.’
‘Don’t be too sure of that, for he is a master of disguises.’
This time Prosper did not have to wait upon the wooden bench. M. Patrigent had arranged for his examination to immediately follow his interview with his father, with the object of getting the truth from him while his nerves were still vibrating with emotion.
The magistrate was, therefore, very surprised at the cashier’s proud and resolute attitude.
The first question was:
‘Have you reflected?’
‘Being innocent,’ Prosper replied, ‘I have nothing on which to reflect.’
‘Ah,’ the magistrate said, ‘you forget that sincerity and repentance are necessary to obtain lenient treatment.’
‘I have need, sir, neither of pardon or leniency.’
‘How would you answer,’ the magistrate resumed, ‘if I told you what had become of the money?’
Prosper shook his head sadly. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I should not be here.’
The ordinary method of examination employed by the magistrate often succeeds, but it did not do so in this case.
‘Then you persist in accusing your employer?’
‘Either him or someone else.’
‘Excuse me, it could only be he. No one else knew the word. Had he any reason to rob himself?’
‘I know of none, sir.’
‘Ah, well,’ the magistrate said, ‘I will tell you the reason you had to rob him.’
This was the magistrate’s last effort to break through the cashier’s calm and determined resistance.
‘Will you tell me,’ the magistrate began, ‘how much you spent last year?’
Prosper answered promptly: ‘About 50,000 francs.’
‘Where did you get the money?’
‘I inherited 12,000 francs from my mother. My salary and commission came to 14,000. I made about 8,000 on the Stock Exchange, and the rest I borrowed. I can repay the latter item as I have 15,000 francs to my credit with M. Fauvel.’
‘Who lent you the money?’
‘M. Raoul de Lagors.’
This gentleman had gone away on the day of the robbery, so he could not be examined.
‘Now, tell me,’ the magistrate said, ‘what made you withdraw the money from the bank the day before it was required?’
‘Because M. de Clameran gave me to understand, sir, that he required the money early in the morning.’
‘Was he a friend of yours, then?’
‘No, I did not like him, but he was a friend of M. de Lagors.’
‘How did you spend the evening of the robbery?’ the magistrate asked.
‘After leaving the office at five, I went by train to Saint Germain and to M. Raoul de Lagors’ country house with 1,500 francs he required. As he was not at home I left the money with the servant.’
‘Did you know M. de Lagors was going to travel?’
‘No, I do not know whether he is in Paris or not.’
‘What did you do when you left your friend’s house?’
‘I returned to Paris and dined with a friend at a Boulevard restaurant.’
‘After that?’
Prosper hesitated.
‘As you won’t say,’ M. Patrigent went on, ‘I will tell you how you spent your time. You went to the Rue Chaptal, dressed and went to a party given by a woman named Wilson, one of those women who disgrace the theatres by calling themselves dramatic artistes.’
‘That is quite right, sir.’
‘There is a good deal of play there, is there not?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘You frequent those kind of places, do you not? Were you not mixed up in a scandalous adventure with a woman of that class named Crescenzi?’
‘I thought I was giving evidence concerning a robbery.’
‘Yes, gambling leads to robbery. Did you not lose 1,800 francs at the woman Wilson’s?’
‘Excuse me, sir, only 1,100 francs.’
‘Very well. In the morning you paid a bill of 1,000 francs.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Besides, there was 500 francs in your desk and 400 francs in your purse when you were arrested. In all that was 4,500 francs in twenty-four hours.’
Prosper was stupefied at this exact information which had been obtained in so short a time. At last he said:
‘Your information is accurate, sir.’
‘Where did this money come from, seeing that the previous evening you were so short you put off paying a small
bill?’
‘Sir, on the day you mention, I sold through an agent some securities for 3,000 francs and drew 2,000 francs salary in advance. I have nothing to hide.’
M. Patrigent renewed the attack from another point.
‘If you have nothing to hide,’ he said, ‘why did you mysteriously pass this note to a colleague?’
The blow struck home. Prosper’s eyes dropped before the magistrate’s searching gaze.
‘I thought, I wished—’ he muttered.
‘You wanted to conceal your mistress.’
‘Yes, sir, that is true. I knew that when a man is accused of a crime, all the weaknesses of his life become evidence against him.’
‘You mean the presence of a woman would give weight to the charge. You live with a woman?’
‘I am young, sir.’
‘Justice can pardon passing indiscretions, but cannot excuse the scandal of these unions. The man who respects himself so little as to live with a fallen woman does not raise the woman up to him, but he descends to her.’
‘Sir.’
‘I suppose you know who this woman is to whom you have loaned your mother’s honourable name?’
‘Madame Gypsy was a governess when I met her; she was born at Oporto and came to France with a Portuguese family.’
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
‘Her name is not Gypsy,’ he said, ‘she has never been a governess, and she is not Portuguese.’
Prosper tried to protest, but M. Patrigent silenced him, and began searching through a number of documents.
‘Ah, here it is; listen. Palmyre Chocareille, born at Paris in 1840, the daughter of Jacques Chocareille and Caroline Piedlent his wife. Palmyre Chocareille at the age of twelve was apprenticed to a bootmaker and stayed there till she was sixteen. At the age of seventeen she went as domestic servant to the Dombas, grocers, Rue Saint Denis, and stayed there three months. In that year, 1857, she had eight or ten places. In 1858, being weary of service, she went to work for a fan merchant in Passage Choiseul.’
The magistrate watched Prosper’s face as he read to see the effect.
‘At the end of 1858,’ he continued, ‘the girl Chocareille entered the service of a lady named Nunès and went with her to Lisbon. In 1861 she was in Paris again, and was sentenced at the Seine Court to three months imprisonment for wounding. She brought back the name of Nina Gypsy from Portugal.’
‘But, sir,’ Prosper began, ‘I assure you—’
‘Yes, I understand this story is not as romantic as the one she told you, but it is true. Six months after coming out of prison she made the acquaintance of a commercial traveller named Caldas, who was captivated by her beauty and who took rooms for her near the Bastille. She was living with him in his name till she left him for you. Have you ever heard of Caldas?’
‘Never, sir.’
‘This poor fellow loved her so madly that at the news of her departure he went mad with grief. He swore to kill the man who took her away, but he is supposed to have committed suicide, for after selling the furniture of the rooms he disappeared. That is the woman, your companion, for whom you stole. At least, admit that this woman was the cause of your downfall.’
‘I could not do that, sir, for it is not the case.’
‘At any rate she has been a great expense to you. Stop’—the magistrate drew out a bill—‘last December you paid her dressmaker 2,000 francs.’
‘All this money was spent willingly by me upon her.’
‘You deny the evidence,’ the magistrate continued. ‘Do you deny that this girl was the cause of your changed habits?’
‘Yes, sir, I do.’
‘Then why did you suddenly disappear from a house where you were courting a young lady?’
‘I cannot tell you my reasons,’ Prosper replied.
The magistrate breathed more freely. He had found a weak spot in the prisoner’s armour.
‘Did Mademoiselle Madeleine dismiss you?’ he asked.
Prosper was silent.
‘Speak,’ M. Patrigent insisted, ‘I must warn you this is a very serious point.’
‘However dangerous silence may be to me I shall not speak.’
The magistrate waited in silence for a further statement, which he did not receive, and then resumed:
‘You have spent 50,000 francs in a year and exhausted your resources; you could not continue your kind of life; what did you think of doing?’
‘I had no plans, sir.’
‘You went on as long as you could and then drew upon your employer’s safe?’
‘Ah, sir, if I were guilty, I should not be here now. I should not have returned to my office.’
M. Patrigent could not prevent a smile of satisfaction as he said:
‘I expected that argument. In remaining you showed your wisdom. Several recent cases have proved the futility of flight. Like a wise man you remained and said to yourself: “If the worst comes to the worst, after I have served my sentence I can enjoy the spoil.” Many people would sacrifice five years of their life for 350,000 francs.’
‘But, sir, if I had thought like that, I should have waited and taken a million.’
‘Oh,’ M. Patrigent said, ‘it is not always possible to wait.’
After a few moments’ thought, Prosper said:
‘A detail has just come into my mind which may assist me. When the messenger brought the money from the bank, I was ready to leave, and I am sure I locked up the banknotes in his presence.’
‘He shall be examined,’ M. Patrigent said. ‘You will be taken back to your cell.’
As soon as Prosper had gone, the magistrate turned to the clerk and said:
‘Was not a medical certificate received to excuse the messenger Antonin’s attendance? Where does he live?’
‘Sir,’ Sigault replied, ‘he is at present in the Dubois Hospital.’
‘Ah, well, I will go and examine him today. Send for a carriage.’
On reaching the hospital and finding the man well enough to be examined, M. Patrigent and his clerk went to his bedside.
When the messenger had answered the usual questions and said that he was Antonin Poche, that he was forty years old, was born at Cadaujac and a single man, the magistrate said:
‘Are you well enough to answer my questions?’
‘Quite, sir.’
‘Did you go to the bank on February 27 to withdraw the 350,000 francs which were stolen?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What time did you return?’
‘Rather late; it must have been five o’clock when I got back.’
‘Do you remember what M. Bertomy did when you gave him the money? Now, think carefully.’
‘First he counted the notes and made them up into four packets which he put in the safe, then locked the safe, yes, and I am quite sure of it, and went out.’
‘Are you quite sure of what you are saying?’ asked the magistrate.
The solemn tone of M. Patrigent frightened him.
‘Sure,’ he replied with marked hesitation, ‘I would wager my head upon it.’
He would say no more for fear of being compromised, and it would not have taken much to make him withdraw his statement altogether.
As the magistrate went out he said to his clerk:
‘It is becoming very serious.’
CHAPTER VI
THE Grand-Archange Hôtel, the refuge of Madame Gypsy, is the finest on the Quai Saint-Michel.
Madame Alexandré, the proprietress, once a beautiful woman, had become too big, though her eyes were still bright and her teeth white, but alas her nose was red.
She adored her husband, and just when M. Patrigent was leaving the Hospital she was waiting dinner for him.
Fanferlot himself appeared. They had met three years before, when she employed him as a private inquiry agent. They got married and with their joint savings took and furnished the Grand-Archange Hôtel, where they prospered and were esteemed. Fanferlot’s employment in the detective service was kept a secret.
‘How late you are,’ she said as she kissed him.
‘I am worn out,’ he said; ‘I have been playing billiards all day with Evariste, M. Fauvel’s valet, and he won as often as he liked; he is a fellow who has no knowledge of anything but billiards. I made his acquaintance the day before yesterday and now I am his best friend. I am sure of his support if I apply for Antonin’s berth as messenger.’
‘What, you a messenger!’
‘Yes, I must take the position to make inquiries there.’
‘Did not the valet tell you anything?’
‘Nothing of much use. The banker is a saint. He has no vices. He does not drink, gamble or keep a mistress. He is enormously rich and lives frugally. He loves his wife and children; he often has visitors but rarely goes out.’
‘How old is his wife?’
‘About fifty.’
‘Have you found out,’ Madame Alexandré asked, ‘about the other members of the family?’
‘Oh, yes. The younger son is an officer somewhere. The elder, Lucien, lives with his parents and is a model of virtue. I have found out nothing about the wife or the niece.’
‘Do you know what I would do if I were in your place?’
‘No.’
‘I would consult M. Lecoq.’
The name made Fanferlot jump.
‘That is fine advice,’ he said. ‘I should lose my position if he even suspected what I was doing.’
‘I mean, ask his advice in an offhand way.’
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