LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter XXVI

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      When M. Lecoq was in a hurry he walked fast. He almost ran down the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette, so that Plantat had great difficulty in keeping up with him; and as he went along he pursued his train of reflection, half aloud, so that his companion caught here and there a snatch of it.

      “All goes well,” he muttered, “and we shall succeed. It’s seldom that a campaign which commences so well ends badly. If Job is at the wine merchant’s, and if one of my men has succeeded in his search, the crime of Valfeuillu is solved, and in a week people will have forgotten it.”

      He stopped short on reaching the foot of the street opposite the church.

      “I must ask you to pardon me,” said he to the old justice, “for hurrying you on so and making you one of my trade; but your assistance might have been very useful at Madame Charman’s, and will be indispensable when we get fairly on Tremorel’s track.”

      They went across the square and into the wine shop at the corner of the Rue des Martyrs. Its keeper was standing behind his counter turning wine out of a large jug into some litres, and did not seem much astonished at seeing his new visitors. M. Lecoq was quite at home (as he was everywhere), and spoke to the man with an air of easy familiarity.

      “Aren’t there six or eight men waiting for somebody here?” he asked.

      “Yes, they came about an hour ago.”

      “Are they in the big back room?”

      “Just so, Monsieur,” responded the wine merchant, obsequiously.

      He didn’t exactly know who was talking to him, but he suspected him to be some superior officer from the prefecture; and he was not surprised to see that this distinguished personage knew the ins and outs of his house. He opened the door of the room referred to without hesitation. Ten men in various guises were drinking there and playing cards. On M. Lecoq’s entrance with M. Plantat, they respectfully got up and took off their hats.

      “Good for you, Job,” said M. Lecoq to him who seemed to be their chief, “you are prompt, and it pleases me. Your ten men will be quite enough, for I shall have the three besides whom I sent out this morning.”

      M. Job bowed, happy at having pleased a master who was not very prodigal in his praises.

      “I want you to wait here a while longer,” resumed M. Lecoq, “for my orders will depend on a report which I am expecting.” He turned to the men whom he had sent out among the upholsterers:

      “Which of you was successful?”

      “I, Monsieur,” replied a big white-faced fellow, with insignificant mustaches.

      “What, you again, Palot? really, my lad, you are lucky. Step into this side room—first, though, order a bottle of wine, and ask the proprietor to see to it that we are not disturbed.”

      These orders were soon executed, and M. Plantat being duly ensconced with them in the little room, the detective turned the key.

      “Speak up now,” said he to Palot, “and be brief.”

      “I showed the photograph to at least a dozen upholsterers without any result; but at last a merchant in the Faubourg St. Germain, named Rech, recognized it.”

      “Tell me just what he said, if you can.”

      “He told me that it was the portrait of one of his customers. A month ago this customer came to him to buy a complete set of furniture—drawing-room, dining-room, bed-room, and the rest—for a little house which he had just rented. He did not beat him down at all, and only made one condition to the purchase, and that was, that everything should be ready and in place, and the curtains and carpets put in, within three weeks from that time; that is a week ago last Monday.”

      “And what was the sum-total of the purchase?”

      “Eighteen thousand francs, half paid down in advance, and half on the day of delivery.”

      “And who carried the last half of the money to the upholsterer?”

      “A servant.”

      “What name did this customer give?”

      “He called himself Monsieur James Wilson; but Monsieur Rech said he did not seem like an English-man.”

      “Where does he live?”

      “The furniture was carried to a small house, No. 34 Rue St. Lazare, near the Havre station.”

      M. Lecoq’s face, which had up to that moment worn an anxious expression, beamed with joy. He felt the natural pride of a captain who has succeeded in his plans for the enemy’s destruction. He tapped the old justice of the peace familiarly on the shoulder, and pronounced a single word:

      “Nipped!”

      Palot shook his head.

      “It isn’t certain,” said he.

      “Why?”

      “You may imagine, Monsieur Lecoq, that when I got the address, having some time on my hands, I went to reconnoitre the house.”

      “Well?”

      “The tenant’s name is really Wilson, but it’s not the man of the photograph, I’m certain.”

      M. Plantat gave a groan of disappointment, but M. Lecoq was not so easily discouraged.

      “How did you find out?”

      “I pumped one of the servants.”

      “Confound you!” cried M. Plantat. “Perhaps you roused suspicions.”

      “Oh, no,” answered M. Lecoq. “I’ll answer for him. Palot is a pupil of mine. Explain yourself, Palot.”

      “Recognizing the house—an elegant affair it is, too—I said to myself: ‘I’ faith, here’s the cage; let’s see if the bird is in it.’ I luckily happened to have a napolйon in my pocket; and I slipped it without hesitation into the drain which led from the house to the street-gutter.”

      “Then you rang?”

      “Exactly. The porter—there is a porter—opened the door, and with my most vexed air I told him how, in pulling out my handkerchief, I had dropped a twenty-franc piece in the drain, and begged him to lend me something to try to get it out. He lent me a poker and took another himself, and we got the money out with no difficulty; I began to jump about as if I were delighted, and begged him to let me treat him to a glass of wine.”

      “Not bad.”

      “Oh, Monsieur Lecoq, it is one of your tricks, you know. My porter accepted my invitation, and we soon got to be the best friends in the world over some wine in a shop just across the street from the house. We were having a jolly talk together when, all of a sudden, I leaned over as if I had just espied something on the floor, and picked up—the photograph, which I had dropped and soiled a little with my foot. ‘What,’ cried I, ‘a portrait?’ My new friend took it, looked at it, and didn’t seem to

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