LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

shop and asked to be supplied with a yellow-leather chauffeur’s cap for one of his customers. This was the only one left. He paid for it, without troubling about the size, and drove off. He was in a great hurry.”

      “What sort of fly was it?”

      “A calash.”

      “And on what day did this happen?”

      “On what day? Why, today, at eight o’clock this morning.”

      “This morning? What are you talking about?”

      “The cap was bought this morning.”

      “But that’s impossible, because it was found last night in the park. If it was found there, it must have been there; and, consequently, it must have been bought before.”

      “The hatter told me it was bought this morning.”

      There was a moment of general bewilderment. The nonplussed magistrate strove to understand. Suddenly, he started, as though struck with a gleam of light:

      “Fetch the cabman who brought us here this morning! The man who drove the calash! Fetch him at once!”

      The sergeant of gendarmes and his subordinate ran off to the stables. In a few minutes, the sergeant returned alone.

      “Where’s the cabman?”

      “He asked for food in the kitchen, ate his lunch and then—”

      “And then—?”

      “He went off.”

      “With his fly?”

      “No. Pretending that he wanted to go and see a relation at Ouville, he borrowed the groom’s bicycle. Here are his hat and greatcoat.”

      “But did he leave bare-headed?”

      “No, he took a cap from his pocket and put it on.”

      “A cap?”

      “Yes, a yellow leather cap, it seems.”

      “A yellow leather cap? Why, no, we’ve got it here!”

      “That’s true, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, but his is just like it.”

      The deputy sniggered:

      “Very funny! Most amusing! There are two caps—One, the real one, which constituted our only piece of evidence, has gone off on the head of the sham flyman! The other, the false one, is in your hands. Oh, the fellow has had us nicely!”

      “Catch him! Fetch him back!” cried M. Filleul. “Two of your men on horseback, Sergeant Quevillon, and at full speed!”

      “He is far away by this time,” said the deputy.

      “He can be as far as he pleases, but still we must lay hold of him.”

      “I hope so; but I think, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that your efforts should be concentrated here above all. Would you mind reading this scrap of paper, which I have just found in the pocket of the coat?”

      “Which coat?”

      “The driver’s.”

      And the deputy prosecutor handed M. Filleul a piece of paper, folded in four, containing these few words written in pencil, in a more or less common hand:

      “Woe betide the young lady, if she has killed the governor!”

      The incident caused a certain stir.

      “A word to the wise!” muttered the deputy. “We are now forewarned.”

      “Monsieur le Comte,” said the examining magistrate, “I beg you not to be alarmed. Nor you either, mademoiselle. This threat is of no importance, as the police are on the spot. We shall take every precaution and I will answer for your safety. As for you, gentlemen. I rely on your discretion. You have been present at this inquiry, thanks to my excessive kindness toward the Press, and it would be making me an ill return—”

      He interrupted himself, as though an idea had struck him, looked at the two young men, one after the other, and, going up to the first, asked:

      “What paper do you represent, sir?”

      “The Journal de Rouen.”

      “Have you your credentials?”

      “Here.”

      The card was in order. There was no more to be said. M. Filleul turned to the other reporter:

      “And you, sir?”

      “I?”

      “Yes, you: what paper do you belong to?”

      “Why, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, I write for a number of papers—all over the place—”

      “Your credentials?”

      “I haven’t any.”

      “Oh! How is that?”

      “For a newspaper to give you a card, you have to be on its regular staff.”

      “Well?”

      “Well, I am only an occasional contributor, a free-lance. I send articles to this newspaper and that. They are published or declined according to circumstances.”

      “In that case, what is your name? Where are your papers?”

      “My name would tell you nothing. As for papers, I have none.”

      “You have no paper of any kind to prove your profession!”

      “I have no profession.”

      “But look here, sir,” cried the magistrate, with a certain asperity, “you can’t expect to preserve your incognito after introducing yourself here by a trick and surprising the secrets of the police!”

      “I beg to remark, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, that you asked me nothing when I came in, and that therefore I had nothing to say. Besides, it never struck me that your inquiry was secret, when everybody was admitted—including even one of the criminals!”

      He spoke softly, in a tone of infinite politeness. He was quite a young man, very tall, very slender and dressed without the least attempt at fashion, in a jacket and trousers both too small for him. He had a pink face like a girl’s, a broad forehead topped with close-cropped hair, and a scrubby and ill-trimmed fair beard. His bright eyes gleamed with intelligence. He seemed not in the least embarrassed and wore a pleasant smile, free from any shade of banter.

      M. Filleul looked at him with an aggressive air of distrust. The two gendarmes came forward. The young man exclaimed, gaily:

      “Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, you clearly suspect me of being an accomplice. But, if that were so, would I not have slipped away at the right moment, following the example of my fellow-criminal?”

      “You might have hoped—”

      “Any hope would have been absurd. A moment’s reflection, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction, will make you agree with me that, logically speaking—”

      M. Filleul looked him straight in the eyes and said, sharply:

      “No more jokes! Your name?”

      “Isidore Beautrelet.”

      “Your occupation?”

      “Sixth-form pupil at the Lycee Janson-de-Sailly.”

      M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes.

      “What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil—”

      “At the Lycee Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number—”

      “Oh, look here,” exclaimed M. Filleul, “you’re trying to take me in! This won’t do, you know; a joke can go too far!”

      “I must say, Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction,

Скачать книгу