"Forgive me, monsieur, but it is all part of my story.
We had oysters, two dozen Marennes, and a glass or two of Chablis; then a good portion of tripe, and with them a bottle, only one, monsieur, of Pontet Canet; after that a beefsteak with potatoes and a little Burgundy, then a rum omelet."
"Great Heavens! you should be the fat man in a fair, not an agent of the Detective Bureau."
"It was all this that helped me to my destruction.
He ate, this devilish Italian, like three, and I too, I was so hungry,--forgive me, sir,--I did my share.
But by the time we reached the cheese, a fine, ripe Camembert, had our coffee, and one thimbleful of green Chartreuse, I was _plein jusqu'au bec_, gorged up to the beak."
"And what of your duty, your service, pray?"
"I did think of it, monsieur, but then, he, the Italian, was just the same as myself. He was a colleague. I had no fear of him, not till the very last, when he played me this evil turn.
I suspected nothing when he brought out his pocketbook,--it was stuffed full, monsieur; I saw that and my confidence increased,--called for the reckoning, and paid with an Italian bank-note.
The waiter looked doubtful at the foreign money, and went out to consult the manager.
A minute after, my man got up, saying:
"'There may be some trouble about changing that bank-note.
Excuse me one moment, pray.'
He went out, monsieur, and piff-paff, he was no more to be seen."
"Ah, _nigaud_ (ass), you are too foolish to live!
Why did you not follow him?
Why let him out of your sight?"
"But, monsieur, I was not to know, was I?
I was to accompany him, not to watch him.
I have done wrong, I confess. But then, who was to tell he meant to run away?"
M. Flocon could not deny the justice of this defence.
It was only now, at the eleventh hour, that the Italian had become inculpated, and the question of his possible anxiety to escape had never been considered.
"He was so artful," went on Block in further extenuation of his offence. "He left everything behind.
His overcoat, stick, this book--his own private memorandum-book seemingly--"
"Book?
Hand it me," said the Chief, and when it came into his hands he began to turn over the leaves hurriedly.
It was a small brass-bound note-book or diary, and was full of close writing in pencil.
"I do not understand, not more than a word here and there.
It is no doubt Italian.
Do you know that language, M. le Juge?"
"Not perfectly, but I can read it.
Allow me."
He also turned over the pages, pausing to read a passage here and there, and nodding his head from time to time, evidently struck with the importance of the matter recorded.
Meanwhile, M. Flocon continued an angry conversation with his offending subordinate.
"You will have to find him, Block, and that speedily, within twenty-four hours,--to-day, indeed,--or I will break you like a stick, and send you into the gutter.
Of course, such a consummate ass as you have proved yourself would not think of searching the restaurant or the immediate neighbourhood, or of making inquiries as to whether he had been seen, or as to which way he had gone?"
"Pardon me, monsieur is too hard on me.
I have been unfortunate, a victim to circumstances, still I believe I know my duty.
Yes, I made inquiries, and, what is more, I heard of him."
"Where? how?" asked the Chief, gruffly, but obviously much interested.
"He never spoke to the manager, but walked out and let the change go.
It was a note for a hundred _lire_, a hundred francs, and the restaurant bill was no more than seventeen francs."
"Hah! that is greatly against him indeed."
"He was much pressed, in a great hurry.
Directly he crossed the threshold he called the first cab and was driving away, but he was stopped--"
"The devil! Why did they not keep him, then?"
"Stopped, but only for a moment, and accosted by a woman."
"A woman?"
"Yes, monsieur.
They exchanged but three words.