Richard Dalby - The Blackmailers - Dossier No. 113

‘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: