Part 13 (1/2)
The woman's face brightened. ”Wait a moment,” said she. ”Was this friend of yours a middle-aged man, of medium size, of very dark complexion-wearing a full beard, and having very bright eyes?”
Lecoq could scarcely conceal his agitation. This was an exact description of the supposed murderer. ”Yes,” he stammered, ”that is a very good portrait of the man.”
”Ah, well! he came here on Shrove Sunday, in the afternoon. He asked for a cheap room, and I showed him one on the fifth floor. The office-boy was not here at the time, and he insisted upon taking his trunk upstairs himself. I offered him some refreshments; but he declined to take anything, saying that he was in a great hurry; and he went away after giving me ten francs as security for the rent.”
”Where is he now?” inquired the young detective.
”Dear me! that reminds me,” replied the woman. ”He has never returned, and I have been rather anxious about him. Paris is such a dangerous place for strangers! It is true he spoke French as well as you or I; but what of that? Yesterday evening I gave orders that the commissary of police should be informed of the matter.”
”Yesterday-the commissary?”
”Yes. Still, I don't know whether the boy obeyed me. I had forgotten all about it. Allow me to ring for the boy, and ask him.”
A bucket of iced water falling upon Lecoq's head could not have astonished him more than did this announcement from the proprietress of the Hotel de Mariembourg. Had the prisoner indeed told the truth? Was it possible? Gevrol and the governor of the prison were right, then, and M. Segmuller and he, Lecoq, were senseless fools, pursuing a fantom. These ideas flashed rapidly through the young detective's brain. But he had no time for reflection. The boy who had been summoned now made his appearance, and proved to be a big overgrown lad with frank, chubby face.
”Fritz,” asked his mistress, ”did you go to the commissary's office?”
”Yes, madame.”
”What did he say?”
”He was not in; but I spoke to his secretary, M. Casimir, who said you were not to worry yourself, as the man would no doubt return.”
”But he has not returned.”
The boy rejoined, with a movement of the shoulders that plainly implied: ”How can I help that?”
”You hear, sir,” said the hostess, apparently thinking the importunate questioner would now withdraw.
Such, however, was not Lecoq's intention, and he did not even move, though he had need of all his self-possession to retain his English accent. ”This is very annoying,” said he, ”very! I am even more anxious and undecided than I was before, since I am not certain that this is the man I am seeking for.”
”Unfortunately, sir, I can tell you nothing more,” calmly replied the landlady.
Lecoq reflected for a moment, knitting his brows and biting his lips, as if he were trying to discover some means of solving the mystery. In point of fact, he was seeking for some adroit phrase which might lead this woman to show him the register in which all travelers are compelled to inscribe their full names, profession, and usual residence. At the same time, however, it was necessary that he should not arouse her suspicions.
”But, madame,” said he at last, ”can't you remember the name this man gave you? Was it May? Try to recollect if that was the name-May-May!”
”Ah! I have so many things to remember. But now I think of it, and the name must be entered in my book, which, if it would oblige you, I can show you. It is in the drawer of my writing-table. Whatever can I have done with my keys?”
And while the hostess, who seemed to possess about as much intelligence as her starling, was turning the whole office upside down looking for her keys, Lecoq scrutinized her closely. She was about forty years of age, with an abundance of light hair, and a very fair complexion. She was well preserved-that is to say, she was plump and healthy in appearance; her glance was frank and unembarra.s.sed; her voice was clear and musical, and her manners were pleasing, and entirely free from affectation.
”Ah!” she eventually exclaimed, ”I have found those wretched keys at last.” So saying, she opened her desk, took out the register, laid it on the table, and began turning over the leaves. At last she found the desired page.
”Sunday, February 20th,” said she. ”Look, sir: here on the seventh line-May-no Christian name-foreign artist-coming from Leipsic-without papers.”
While Lecoq was examining this record with a dazed air, the woman exclaimed: ”Ah! now I can explain how it happened that I forgot the man's name and strange profession-'foreign artist.' I did not make the entry myself.”
”Who made it, then?”
”The man himself, while I was finding ten francs to give him as change for the louis he handed me. You can see that the writing is not at all like that of other entries.”
Lecoq had already noted this circ.u.mstance, which seemed to furnish an irrefutable argument in favor of the a.s.sertions made by the landlady and the prisoner. ”Are you sure,” he asked, ”that this is the man's handwriting?”
In his anxiety he had forgotten his English accent. The woman noticed this at once, for she drew back, and cast a suspicious glance at the pretended foreigner. ”I know what I am saying,” she said, indignantly. ”And now this is enough, isn't it?”
Knowing that he had betrayed himself, and thoroughly ashamed of his lack of coolness, Lecoq renounced his English accent altogether. ”Excuse me,” he said, ”if I ask one more question. Have you this man's trunk in your possession?”
”Certainly.”
”You would do me an immense service by showing it to me.”
”Show it to you!” exclaimed the landlady, angrily. ”What do you take me for? What do you want? and who are you?”
”You shall know in half an hour,” replied the young detective, realizing that further persuasion would be useless.
He hastily left the room, ran to the Place de Roubaix, jumped into a cab, and giving the driver the address of the district commissary of police, promised him a hundred sous over and above the regular fare if he would only make haste. As might have been expected under such circ.u.mstances, the poor horse fairly flew over the ground.
Lecoq was fortunate enough to find the commissary at his office. Having given his name, he was immediately ushered into the magistrate's presence and told his story in a few words.
”It is really true that they came to inform me of this man's disappearance,” said the commissary. ”Casimir told me about it this morning.”
”They-came-to inform-you-” faltered Lecoq.
”Yes, yesterday; but I have had so much to occupy my time. Now, my man, how can I serve you?”
”Come with me, sir; compel them to show us the trunk, and send for a locksmith to open it. Here is the authority-a search warrant given me by the investigating magistrate to use in case of necessity. Let us lose no time. I have a cab at the door.”
”We will start at once,” said the commissary.
The driver whipped up his horse once more, and they were soon rapidly rolling in the direction of the Rue St. Quentin.
”Now, sir,” said the young detective, ”permit me to ask if you know this woman who keeps the Hotel de Mariembourg?”
”Yes, indeed, I know her very well. When I was first appointed to this district, six years ago, I was a bachelor, and for a long while I took my meals at her table d'hote. Casimir, my secretary, boards there even now.”
”And what kind of woman is she?”
”Why, upon my word, my young friend, Madame Milner-for such is her name-is a very respectable widow (highly esteemed by her neighbors) and having a very prosperous business. If she remains a widow, it is only from choice, for she is very prepossessing and has plenty of suitors.”
”Then you don't think her capable of serving, for the sake of a good round sum, the interests of some wealthy culprit?”
”Have you gone mad?” interrupted the commissary. ”What, Madame Milner perjure herself for the sake of money! Haven't I just told you that she is an honest woman, and that she is very well off! Besides, she informed me yesterday that this man was missing, so-”
Lecoq made no reply; the driver was pulling up; they had reached their destination.