LITMIR.BIZ

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you know who the thief is, patron?”

      “I know no more than you do, Fanferlot; and you seem to have made up your mind, whereas I am still undecided. You declare the cashier to be innocent, and the banker guilty. I don’t know whether you are right or wrong. I started after you, and have only reached the preliminaries of my search. I am certain of but one thing, and that is, that a scratch was on the safe-door. That scratch is my starting-point.”

      As he spoke, M. Lecoq took from his desk and unrolled an immense sheet of drawing-paper.

      On this paper was photographed the door of M. Fauvel’s safe. The impression of every detail was perfect. There were the five movable buttons with the engraved letters, and the narrow, projecting brass lock: The scratch was indicated with great exactness.

      “Now,” said M. Lecoq, “here is our scratch. It runs from top to bottom, starting from the hole of the lock, diagonally, and, observe, from left to right; that is to say, it terminates on the side next to the private staircase leading to the banker’s apartments. Although very deep at the key-hole, it ends off in a scarcely perceptible mark.”

      “Yes, patron, I see all that.”

      “Naturally you thought that this scratch was made by the person who took the money. Let us see if you were right. I have here a little iron box, painted with green varnish like M. Fauvel’s safe; here it is. Take a key, and try to scratch it.”

      “The deuce take it!” he said after several attempts, “this paint is awfully hard to move!”

      “Very hard, my friend, and yet that on the safe is still harder and thicker. So you see the scratch you discovered could not have been made by the trembling hand of a thief letting the key slip.”

      “Sapristi!” exclaimed Fanferlot, stupefied: “I never should have thought of that. It certainly required great force to make the deep scratch on the safe.”

      “Yes, but how was that force employed? I have been racking my brain for three days, and only yesterday did I come to a conclusion. Let us examine together, and see if our conjectures present enough chances of probability to establish a starting-point.”

      M. Lecoq abandoned the photograph, and, walking to the door communicating with his bedroom, took the key from the lock, and, holding it in his hand, said:

      “Come here, Fanferlot, and stand by my side: there; very well. Now suppose that I want to open this door, and you don’t want me to open it; when you see me about to insert the key, what would be your first impulse?”

      “To put my hands on your arm, and draw it toward me so as to prevent your introducing the key.”

      “Precisely so. Now let us try it; go on.” Fanferlot obeyed; and the key held by M. Lecoq, pulled aside from the lock, slipped along the door, and traced upon it a diagonal scratch, from top to bottom, the exact reproduction of the one in the photograph.

      “Oh, oh, oh!” exclaimed Fanferlot in three different tones of admiration, as he stood gazing in a revery at the door.

      “Do you begin to understand now?” asked M. Lecoq.

      “Understand, patron? Why, a child could understand it now. Ah, what a man you are! I see the scene as if I had been present. Two persons were present at the robbery; one wished to take the money, the other wished to prevent its being taken. That is clear, that is certain.”

      Accustomed to triumphs of this sort, M. Lecoq was much amused at Fanferlot’s enthusiasm.

      “There you go off, half-primed again,” he said, good-humoredly: “you regard as sure proof a circumstance which may be accidental, and at the most only probable.”

      “No, patron, no! a man like you could not be mistaken: doubt no longer exists.”

      “That being the case, what deductions would you draw from our discovery?”

      “In the first place, it proves that I am correct in thinking the cashier innocent.”

      “How so?”

      “Because, at perfect liberty to open the safe whenever he wished to do so, it is not likely that he would have brought a witness when he intended to commit the theft.”

      “Well reasoned, Fanferlot. But on this supposition the banker would be equally innocent: reflect a little.”

      Fanferlot reflected, and all of his animation vanished.

      “You are right,” he said in a despairing tone. “What can be done now?”

      “Look for the third rogue, or rather the real rogue, the one who opened the safe, and stole the notes, and who is still at large, while others are suspected.”

      “Impossible, patron—impossible! Don’t you know that M. Fauvel and his cashier had keys, and they only? And they always kept these keys in their pockets.”

      “On the evening of the robbery the banker left his key in the secretary.”

      “Yes; but the key alone was not sufficient to open the safe; the word also must be known.”

      M. Lecoq shrugged his shoulders impatiently.

      “What was the word?” he asked.

      “Gypsy.”

      “Which is the name of the cashier’s grisette. Now keep your eyes open. The day you find a man sufficiently intimate with Prosper to be aware of all the circumstances connected with this name, and at the same time on a footing with the Fauvel family which would give him the privilege of entering M. Fauvel’s chamber, then, and not until then, will you discover the guilty party. On that day the problem will be solved.”

      Self-sufficient and vain, like all famous men, M. Lecoq had never had a pupil, and never wished to have one. He worked alone, because he hated assistants, wishing to share neither the pleasures of success nor the pain of defeat.

      Thus Fanferlot, who knew his patron’s character, was surprised to hear him giving advice, who heretofore had only given orders.

      He was so puzzled, that in spite of his pre-occupation he could not help betraying his surprise.

      “Patron,” he ventured to say, “you seem to take a great interest in this affair, you have so deeply studied it.”

      M. Lecoq started nervously, and replied, frowning:

      “You are too curious, Master Squirrel; be careful that you do not go too far. Do you understand?”

      Fanferlot began to apologize.

      “That will do,” interrupted M. Lecoq. “If I choose to lend you a helping hand, it is because it suits my fancy to do so. It pleases me to be the head, and let you be the hand. Unassisted, with your preconceived ideas, you never would have found the culprit; if we two together don’t find him, my name is not Lecoq.”

      “We shall certainly succeed if you interest yourself in the case.”

      “Yes, I am interested in it, and during the last four days I have discovered many important facts. But listen to me. I have reasons for not appearing in this affair. No matter what happens, I forbid your mentioning my name. If we succeed, all the success must be attributed to you. And, above all, don’t try to find out what I choose to keep from you. Be satisfied with what explanations I give you. Now, be careful.”

      These conditions seemed quite to suit Fanferlot.

      “I will obey your instructions, and be discreet.”

      “I shall rely upon you. Now, to begin, you must carry this photograph to the judge of instruction. I know M. Patrigent is much perplexed about this case. Explain to him, as if it were your own discovery, what I have just shown you; repeat for his benefit the scene we have acted, and I am convinced that this evidence will determine him to release the cashier. Prosper must be at liberty before I can commence my operations.”

      “Of course, patron, but must I let him know that I suspect

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