Richard Dalby - The Blackmailers - Dossier No. 113

At the word deficit his hearers became all the more certain of his guilt; even the detective became doubtful of his innocence. The explanation, however, which Prosper gave soon diminished the gravity and significance of this deficit.

‘My cash is 3,500 francs short,’ he said. ‘I have drawn 2,000 francs of my salary in advance, and advanced 1,500 francs to several of my colleagues. Today is the last day of the month, and tomorrow we receive our salaries.’

‘Were you authorized to do this?’ asked the superintendent.

‘No,’ he replied, ‘but in doing so I have merely followed the example of my predecessor, and I am sure M. Fauvel would not have refused me permission to oblige my colleagues.’

‘Quite right,’ was M. Fauvel’s comment on the cashier’s remarks.

This completed the superintendent’s inquiry, and announcing that he was about to depart, he ordered the cashier to follow him.

Even at this fatal order, Prosper did not lose his studied indifference. He took his hat and umbrella and said:

‘I am ready to accompany you, sir!’

The superintendent shut up his portfolio and saluted M. Fauvel, who watched them depart with tears in his eyes and murmured to himself:

‘Would that he had stolen twice as much and I could esteem him and keep him as before.’

Fanferlot, the man with the open ears, overheard the expression. He had remained behind looking for an imaginary umbrella, with the intention of obtaining possession of the note Prosper had written, which was now in Cavaillon’s pocket. He could easily have arrested the latter and taken it by force. But after reflection the detective decided that it would be better to watch Cavaillon, follow him and surprise him in the act of delivering it.

A few judicious inquiries as he was leaving informed the detective that there was only one entrance and exit to the premises of M. Fauvel, the main entrance in the Rue de Provence.

The detective on leaving the bank premises took up a position in a doorway opposite, which not only commanded a view of the entrance, but by standing on tiptoe he could see Cavaillon at his desk.

After a long wait, which he spent in considering the facts of the robbery, he saw Cavaillon get up and change his office coat. A minute afterwards he appeared at the door, and glanced to right and left before starting off in the direction of the Faubourg Montmartre.

‘He is suspicious,’ thought the detective, but it was simply a desire to take the shortest cut, so that he might be back as quickly as possible, which caused him to hesitate.

He walked so quickly that the detective had some difficulty in keeping pace with him, till he reached number 39, Rue Chaptal, where he entered.

Before he had gone more than a step or two along the corridor the detective tapped him on the shoulder. Cavaillon recognized the detective, turned pale, and looked round for a way of escape, but his progress was barred.

‘What do you want?’ he asked in a frightened voice.

With the civility for which he was famous, M. Fanferlot, nicknamed the squirrel, replied:

‘Excuse the liberty I have taken, but I shall be glad if you will give me a little information.’

‘But I don’t know you.’

‘You saw me this morning. Be good enough to take my arm and come into the street with me for a minute.’

There was no help for it, so Cavaillon took his arm and went out. The Rue Chaptal is a quiet street, well adapted for a talk.

‘Is it not, sir, a fact,’ began the detective, ‘that M. Prosper Bertomy threw you a note this morning?’

‘You are mistaken,’ he replied, blushing.

‘I should be sorry to say you were not telling the truth, unless I were sure.’

‘I assure you Prosper gave me nothing.’

‘Pardon me, sir, but do not deny it,’ Fanferlot said, ‘or you will force me to prove that four of your fellow-clerks saw him throw you a note.’

Seeing that denial was useless, the young man changed his method.

‘Yes, that is quite right; I received a note from Prosper, but it was private, and after reading it I tore it up and threw the pieces in the fire.’

It was very likely that this was true, but Fanferlot decided to take his chance.

‘Allow me, sir, to remark that is not correct; the note was to be delivered to Gypsy.’

Cavaillon made a despairing gesture which told the detective that he was right, and began:

‘I swear to you, sir—’

‘Do not swear at all, sir,’ Fanferlot interrupted; ‘all the oaths in the world are useless. You have the note in your pocket and entered that house to deliver it.’

‘No, sir; no.’ The detective took no notice of the denial and went on:

‘You will be good enough to let me read the note.’

‘Never,’ Cavaillon replied.

Thinking this was a favourable opportunity, the young man tried to free his arm, but the detective was as strong as he was polite.

‘Take care not to injure yourself, young man,’ the detective said, ‘and give me the note.’

‘I have not got it.’

‘Come; you will force me to adopt unpleasant measures. Do you know what will happen? I shall call two policemen and have you arrested and searched.’

It seemed to Cavaillon, devoted to Prosper though he was, that the struggle was now useless, and he did not even have the opportunity to destroy the note. To deliver up the note under these circumstances was not betraying a trust.

‘You are the stronger,’ he said; ‘I obey.’ He took the note from his case, cursing his own powerlessness as he did so, and handed it to the detective, whose hands trembled with pleasure as he opened it and read:

‘DEAR NINA,

‘If you love me, obey me quickly without a moment’s hesitation. When you receive this, take everything belonging to you— everything , and go and live in a furnished house at the other end of Paris. Do not show yourself; disappear as much as possible. On your obedience my life perhaps depends. I am accused of a large robbery and I am going to be arrested. There should be 500 francs in the drawer; take it. Give your address to Cavaillon and he will explain to you what I cannot tell you.

‘PROSPER.’

Had Cavaillon been less occupied with his own thoughts, he would have noticed a look of disappointment on the detective’s face. Fanferlot had hoped that this note was of importance, but it seemed to be merely a love-letter. The word ‘everything’ was, it was true, underlined, but that might mean anything.

‘Is Madame Nina Gypsy,’ the detective asked Cavaillon, ‘a friend of M. Prosper Bertomy?’

‘She is his mistress.’

‘She lives at No. 39, does she not?’

‘You know very well she does, for you saw me go in.’

‘Does she occupy rooms in her own name?’

‘No, she lives with Prosper.’

‘On what floor?’

‘The first.’

M. Fanferlot carefully refolded the note and put it in his pocket.

‘I am much obliged,’ he said, ‘for your information, and in return I will deliver the letter for you.’

Cavaillon offered some resistance to this, but M. Fanferlot cut him short with these words:

‘I will give you some good advice. If I were in your place, I would go back to the office and have no more to do with this affair.

‘But he is my friend and protector.’

‘All the more reason you should keep quiet. How can you help him? You are more likely to do him harm.’

‘But, sir, I am sure Prosper is innocent.’

That was, too, Fanferlot’s opinion; but he did not consider it wise to tell the young man this, so he said:

‘It is quite possible, and I hope it is so for M. Bertomy’s sake, and also for your sake, for if he is found guilty, you may be suspected too. So, go back to your work.’