His capital and his cleverness are at the service of vice and crime; this money furnishes the necessary funds for a regular army of blackguards in his pay who wage incessant war against society.
If we can catch Trompe-la-Mort, and take possession of his funds, we should strike at the root of this evil.
So this job is a kind of Government affair — a State secret — and likely to redound to the honor of those who bring the thing to a successful conclusion.
You, sir, for instance, might very well be taken into a Government department again; they might make you secretary to a Commissary of Police; you could accept that post without prejudice to your retiring pension.”
Mlle. Michonneau interposed at this point with, “What is there to hinder Trompe-la-Mort from making off with the money?”
“Oh!” said the detective, “a man is told off to follow him everywhere he goes, with orders to kill him if he were to rob the convicts.
Then it is not quite as easy to make off with a lot of money as it is to run away with a young lady of family.
Besides, Collin is not the sort of fellow to play such a trick; he would be disgraced, according to his notions.”
“You are quite right, sir,” said Poiret, “utterly disgraced he would be.”
“But none of all this explains why you do not come and take him without more ado,” remarked Mlle. Michonneau.
“Very well, mademoiselle, I will explain — but,” he added in her ear, “keep your companion quiet, or I shall never have done.
The old boy ought to pay people handsomely for listening to him. — Trompe-la-Mort, when he came back here,” he went on aloud “slipped into the skin of an honest man; he turned up disguised as a decent Parisian citizen, and took up his quarters in an unpretending lodging-house.
He is cunning, that he is! You don’t catch him napping.
Then M. Vautrin is a man of consequence, who transacts a good deal of business.”
“Naturally,” said Poiret to himself.
“And suppose that the Minister were to make a mistake and get hold of the real Vautrin, he would put every one’s back up among the business men in Paris, and public opinion would be against him.
M. le Prefet de Police is on slippery ground; he has enemies.
They would take advantage of any mistake. There would be a fine outcry and fuss made by the Opposition, and he would be sent packing.
We must set about this just as we did about the Coignard affair, the sham Comte de Sainte-Helene; if he had been the real Comte de Sainte-Helene, we should have been in the wrong box.
We want to be quite sure what we are about.”
“Yes, but what you want is a pretty woman,” said Mlle. Michonneau briskly.
“Trompe-la-Mort would not let a woman come near him,” said the detective.
“I will tell you a secret — he does not like them.”
“Still, I do not see what I can do, supposing that I did agree to identify him for two thousand francs.”
“Nothing simpler,” said the stranger.
“I will send you a little bottle containing a dose that will send a rush of blood to the head; it will do him no harm whatever, but he will fall down as if he were in a fit.
The drug can be put into wine or coffee; either will do equally well.
You carry your man to bed at once, and undress him to see that he is not dying.
As soon as you are alone, you give him a slap on the shoulder, and presto!the letters will appear.”
“Why, that is just nothing at all,” said Poiret.
“Well, do you agree?” said Gondureau, addressing the old maid.
“But, my dear sir, suppose there are no letters at all,” said Mlle. Michonneau; “am I to have the two thousand francs all the same?”
“No.”
“What will you give me then?”
“Five hundred francs.”
“It is such a thing to do for so little!
It lies on your conscience just the same, and I must quiet my conscience, sir.”
“I assure you,” said Poiret, “that mademoiselle has a great deal of conscience, and not only so, she is a very amiable person, and very intelligent.”
“Well, now,” Mlle. Michonneau went on, “make it three thousand francs if he is Trompe-la-Mort, and nothing at all if he is an ordinary man.”
“Done!” said Gondureau, “but on the condition that the thing is settled to-morrow.”
“Not quite so soon, my dear sir; I must consult my confessor first.”
“You are a sly one,” said the detective as he rose to his feet.
“Good-bye till to-morrow, then.
And if you should want to see me in a hurry, go to the Petite Rue Saint-Anne at the bottom of the Cour de la Sainte-Chapelle.
There is one door under the archway.
Ask there for M. Gondureau.”
Bianchon, on his way back from Cuvier’s lecture, overheard the sufficiently striking nickname of Trompe-la-Mort, and caught the celebrated chief detective’s
“Done!” “Why didn’t you close with him?
It would be three hundred francs a year,” said Poiret to Mlle. Michonneau.
“Why didn’t I?” she asked.