File No. 113 by Émile Gaboriau (summer beach reads .txt) 📕

By whom?”

“By all that is sacred, I swear that it was not by me.”

The banker’s face turned crimson. “Miserable wretch!” cried he, “do you mean to say that I took the money?”

Prosper bowed his head, and did not answer.

“Ah! it is thus, then,” said M. Fauvel, unable to contain himself any longer. “And you dare⁠—. Then, between you and me, M. Prosper Bertomy, justice shall decide. God is my witness that I have done all I could to save you. You will have yourself to thank for what follows. I have sent for the commissary of police: he must be waiting in my study. Shall I call him down?”

Prosper, with the fearful resignation of a man who abandons himself, replied, in a stifled voice:

“Do as you will.”

The banker was near the door, which he opened, and, after giving the cashier a last searching look, said to an office-boy:

“Anselme, ask the commissary of police to step down.”

III

If there is one man in the world whom no event can move or surprise, who is always on his guard against deceptive appearances, and is capable of admitting everything and explaining everything, it certainly is a Parisian commissary of police.

While the judge, from his lofty place, applies the code to the facts submitted to him, the commissary of police observes and watches all the odious circumstances that the law cannot reach. He is perforce the confidant of disgraceful details, domestic crimes, and tolerated vices.

If, when he entered upon his office, he had any illusions, before the end of a year they were all dissipated.

If he does not absolutely despise the human race, it is because often, side by side with abominations indulged in with impunity, he discovers sublime generosities which remain unrewarded.

He sees impudent scoundrels filching public respect; and he consoles himself by thinking of the modest, obscure heroes whom he has also encountered.

So often have his previsions been deceived, that he has reached a state of complete scepticism. He believes in nothing, neither in evil nor in absolute good; not more in virtue than in vice.

His experience has forced him to come to the sad conclusion that not men, but events, are worth considering.

The commissary sent for by M. Fauvel soon made his appearance.

It was with a calm air, if not one of perfect indifference, that he entered the office.

He was followed by a short man dressed in a full suit of black, which was slightly relieved by a crumpled collar.

The banker, scarcely bowing to him, said:

“Doubtless, monsieur, you have been apprised of the painful circumstance which compels me to have recourse to your assistance?”

“It is about a robbery, I believe.”

“Yes; an infamous and mysterious robbery committed in this office, from the safe you see open there, of which my cashier” (he pointed to Prosper) “alone possesses the key and the word.”

This declaration seemed to arouse the unfortunate cashier from his dull stupor.

“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said to the commissary in a low tone. “My chief also has the word and the key.”

“Of course, that is understood.”

The commissary at once drew his own conclusions.

Evidently these two men accused each other.

From their own statements, one or the other was guilty.

One was the head of an important bank: the other was a simple cashier.

One was the chief: the other was the clerk.

But the commissary of police was too well skilled in concealing his impressions to betray his thoughts by any outward sign. Not a muscle of his face moved.

But he became more grave, and alternately watched the cashier and M. Fauvel, as if trying to draw some profitable conclusion from their behavior.

Prosper was very pale and dejected. He had dropped into a seat, and his arms hung inert on either side of the chair.

The banker, on the contrary, remained standing with flashing eyes and crimson face, expressing himself with extraordinary violence.

“And the importance of the theft is immense,” continued M. Fauvel; “they have taken a fortune, three hundred and fifty thousand francs. This robbery might have had the most disastrous consequences. In times like these, the want of this sum might compromise the credit of the wealthiest banking-house in Paris.”

“I believe so, if notes fall due.”

“Well, monsieur, I had this very day a heavy payment to make.”

“Ah, really!”

There was no mistaking the commissary’s tone; a suspicion, the first, had evidently entered his mind.

The banker understood it; he started, and said, quickly:

“I met the demand, but at the cost of a disagreeable sacrifice. I ought to add further that, if my orders had been obeyed, the three hundred and fifty thousand francs would not have been in.”

“How is that?”

“I never desire to have large sums of money in my house overnight. My cashier had positive orders to wait always until the last moment before drawing money from the Bank of France. I above all forbade him to leave money in the safe overnight.”

“You hear this?” said the commissary to Prosper.

“Yes, monsieur,” replied the cashier, “M. Fauvel’s statement is quite correct.”

After this explanation, the suspicions of the commissary, instead of being strengthened, were dissipated.

“Well,” he said, “a robbery has been perpetrated, but by whom? Did the robber enter from without?”

The banker hesitated a moment.

“I think not,” he said at last.

“And I am certain he did not,” said Prosper.

The commissary expected and was prepared for those answers; but it did not suit his purpose to follow them up immediately.

“However,” said he, “we must make ourselves sure of it.” Turning toward his companion:

“M. Fanferlot,” he said, “go and see if you cannot discover some traces that may have escaped the attention of these gentlemen.”

M. Fanferlot, nicknamed the Squirrel, was indebted to his prodigious agility for this title, of which he was not a little proud. Slim and insignificant in appearance he might, in spite of his iron muscles, be taken for a bailiff’s under clerk, as he walked along buttoned up to the chin in his thin black overcoat. He had one of those faces that impress us disagreeably⁠—an odiously turned-up nose, thin lips, and little, restless black eyes.

Fanferlot, who had