The Champdoce Mystery 23 – Gaboriau · Verses Across
Literature · Detective Fiction
The Champdoce Mystery 23Ringing the Changes
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Literature · Detective Fiction
The Champdoce Mystery 23
Ringing the Changes
GaboriauEnglish
Andre, who was gifted with plenty of intelligence, at once judged of the kind of business done by the Mutual Loan Society by the dinginess of the brass plate on the door and the generally dilapidated aspect of the house.
“I don’t like the look of it at all,” said he.
“It does not go in for show,” answered Gaston, affecting an air of wisdom, “but it is deemed handy sometimes. It does all sorts of business that you would never think of. A real downy card is Verminet.”
Andre could easily believe this, for, of course, there could be but one opinion concerning the character of a man who could have induced a mere simpleton like Gaston to affix a forged signature to the bills which he had discounted. He made no remark, however, but entered the house, with the interior arrangements of which Gaston appeared to be perfectly familiar. They passed through a dirty, ill-smelling passage, went across a courtyard, cold and damp as a cell, and ascended a flight of stairs with a grimy balustrade. On the second floor Gaston made a halt before a door upon which several names were painted. They passed through into a large and lofty room. The paper on the walls of this delectable chamber was torn and spotted, and a light railing ran along it, behind which sat two or three clerks, whose chief occupation appeared to be consuming the breakfast which they had brought with them to the office. The heat of the stove, which was burning in one corner of the room, the general mouldiness of the atmosphere, and the smell of the coarse food, were sufficient to turn the stomach of any one coming in from the fresh air.
“Where is M. Verminet?” asked Gaston authoritatively.
“Engaged,” replied one of the clerks, without pausing to empty his mouth before he replied.
“Don’t you talk to me like that. What do I care whether he is engaged or not? Tell him that Gaston de Gandelu desires to see him at once.”
The clerk was evidently impressed by his visitor’s manner, and, taking the card which was handed to him, made his exit through a door at the other end of the room.
Gaston was delighted at this first victory, and glanced at Andre with a triumphant smile.
The clerk came back almost at once. “M. Verminet,” cried he, “has a client with him just now. He begs that you will excuse him for a few minutes, when he will see you;” and evidently anxious to be civil to the gorgeously attired youths before him, he added, “My master is just now engaged with M. de Croisenois.”
“Aha,” cried Gaston; “I will lay you ten to one that the dear Marquis will be delighted to see me.”
Andre started on hearing this name, and his cheek crimsoned. The man whom he most hated in this world; the wretch who, by his possession of some compromising secret, was forcing Sabine into a detested marriage; the villain whom he, M. de Breulh, and Madame de Bois Arden had sworn to overreach, was within a few paces of him, and that now he should see him face to face. Their eyes would meet, and he would hear the tones of the scoundrel’s voice. His rage and agitation were so intense that it was with the utmost difficulty that he concealed it. Luckily for him, Gaston was not paying the slightest attention to his companion; for having, at the clerk’s invitation, taken a chair, he assumed an imposing attitude, which struck the shabby young man behind the railing with the deepest admiration.
“I suppose,” said he, in a loud voice, “that you know my dear friend, the Marquis?”
Andre made some reply, which Gaston interpreted as a negative.
“Really,” said he, “you know no one, as I told you before. Where have you lived? But you must have heard of him? Henri de Croisenois is one of my most intimate friends. He owes me over fifty louis that I won of him one night at baccarat.”
Andre was now certain that he had estimated Verminet’s character correctly, and the relations of the Marquis de Croisenois with this very equivocal personage assumed a meaning of great significance to him. He felt now that he had gained a clue, a beacon blazed out before him, and he saw his way more clearly into the difficult windings of this labyrinth of iniquity which he knew that he must penetrate before he gained the secret he longed for.
He felt like a child playing the game called “Magic Music,” when, as the seeker nears the hiding place of the article of which he is in search, the strains of the piano swell higher and higher. He now found that the boy whose master he had become, knew, or said he knew, a good deal of this marquis. Why should he not gain some information from him?
“Are you really intimate with the Marquis de Croisenois?” asked he.
“I should rather think I was,” returned Gandelu the younger. “You will see that precious sharp. I know all about him, and who the girl is that he is ruining himself for, but I mustn’t talk about that; mum’s the word, you know.”
At that moment the door opened, and the Marquis appeared, followed by Verminet.
Henri de Croisenois was attired in the most fashionable manner, and formed an utter contrast to the flashy dress of Gaston. He was smoking a cigar, and mechanically tapping his boots with an elegant walking cane. In a moment the features and figure of the Viscount were indelibly photographed upon Andre’s brain. He particularly noticed his eyes, which had in them a half-concealed look of terror, and his face bore the haunted expression of a person who expects some terrible blow to fall upon him at any moment.
At a little distance the Marquis still seemed young, but a closer inspection showed that the man looked even older than he really was, so worn and haggard were his mouth and eyes. Nights at the gaming-table and the anxiety as to where the fresh supplies should come from to furnish the means to prolong his life of debauchery had told heavily upon him. To-day, however, he seemed to be in the best temper imaginable, and in the most cheerful manner he addressed a few words to Verminet, in conclusion of the conversation that had been going on in the inner office.
“It is settled then,” remarked he, “that I am to have nothing more to do with a business with which neither of us has any real concern?”
“Just so,” answered Verminet.
“Very well, then; but remember that any mistake you may make in the other affair will be attended with the most serious results.”
This caution seemed to suggest some new idea to Verminet, for he said something in a low voice to his client at which they both laughed.
Gaston was fidgeting about, very uneasy at the Marquis having paid no attention to him, and he now advanced with a magnificent salutation and a friendly wave of the hand. If the Marquis was charmed at meeting Gandelu, he concealed his delight in a most wonderful manner. He seemed surprised, but not agreeably so; he bent his head, and he extended his gloved hand with a negligent, “Ah, pleased to see you.” Then without taking any more notice of Gaston, he turned on his heel and continued his conversation with Verminet.
“The worst part is over,” said he, “and therefore no time is to be lost. You must see Mascarin and Martin Rigal, the banker, to-day.”
At these words Andre started. Were these people Croisenois’ accomplices? Certainly he had accomplices on the brain just now, and their names remained deeply engraved on the tablets of his memory.
“Tantaine was here this morning,” observed Verminet, “and told me that his master wanted to see me at four this afternoon. Van Klopen will be there also. Shall I say a word to him about your fine friend?”
“‘Pon my soul,” remarked the Marquis, shrugging his shoulders, “I had nearly forgotten her. There will be a tremendous fuss made, for she will be wanting all sorts of things. Speak to Van Klopen certainly, but do not bind yourself. Remember that I do not care a bit for the fair Sara.”
“Quite so; I understand,” answered Verminet; “but keep things quiet, and do not have any open disturbances.”
“Of course not. Good morning,” and with a bow to the managing director and a nod to Gaston, he lunged out of the office, not condescending to take the slightest notice of Andre. Verminet invited Andre and Gaston into his sanctum, and, taking a seat, motioned to them to do the same. Verminet was a decided contrast to his office, which was shabby and dirty, for his dress did his tailor credit, and he appeared to be clean. He was neither old nor young, and carried his years well. He was fresh and plump, wore his whiskers and hair cut in the English fashion, while his sunken eyes had no more expression in them than those of a fish.
Gandelu was in a hurry to begin.
“Let us get to business,” said he. “Last week you lent me some money.”
“Just so. Do you want any more?”
“No; I want to return my bills.”
A cloud passed over Verminet’s face.
“The first does not fall due until the 15th,” remarked he.
“No matter; I have the money with me, and I will pay it on you handing over the bills to me.”
“I can’t do it.”
“And why so, pray?”
“The bills have passed out of my hands.”
Gaston could scarcely credit his ears, nor believe in the truth of this last statement, and was certainly upset, now knowing what to do.
“But,” stammered he, “you promised, when I signed those bills, that they should never go out of your hands.”
“I don’t say I did not; but one can’t always keep to one’s promise. I was forced to part with them. I wanted money, and so had to discount them.”
Andre was not at all surprised, for he had anticipated some such difficulty; and seeing that Gaston had entirely lost his head, he broke in on the conversation.
“Excuse me, sir,” remarked he; “but it seems to me that there are certain circumstances in this case which should have made you keep your promise.”
Verminet stared at him.
“Who have I the honor of speaking to?” asked he, instead of making a direct reply.
“I am a friend of M. de Gandelu’s,” returned Andre, thinking it best not to give any name.
“A confidential friend?”
“Entirely so. He had, I think, ten thousand francs from you.”
“Pardon me, five thousand.”
Andre turned toward his companion in some surprise.
Gaston grew crimson.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked the artist.
“Can’t you see?” whispered Gaston. “I had ten because I wanted the other five for Zora.”
“Oh, indeed,” returned Andre, with a slight uplifting of his eyebrows. “Well, then, M. Verminet, it was five thousand francs that you lent to my young friend here. That was right enough; but what do you say to inducing him to forge a signature?”
“I! I do such a thing?” answered Verminet. “Why, I did not know that the signature was not genuine.”
This insolent denial aroused the unhappy Gaston from his state of stupor.
“This is too much, a deuced deal too much,” cried he. “Did you not yourself tell me that, for your own security, you must insist upon another name in addition to mine? Did you not give me a letter, and say, ‘Write a signature like the one at the bottom of this, it is that of Martin Rigal, the banker in the Rue Montmartre’?”
“An utterly false accusation, without a shadow of proof; and remember that a libel uttered in the presence of a third party is punishable by law.”
“And yet, sir,” continued Andre, “you did not hesitate for a moment in discounting these bills. Have you calculated what terrible results may come of this breach of faith on your part?--what will happen if this forged signature is presented to M. Martin Rigal?”
“Very unlikely. Gandelu is the drawer, Rigal merely the endorser. Bills, when due, are always presented to the drawer,” returned Verminet laconically.
Evidently a trap had been laid for Gaston, but the reason was still buried in obscurity.
“Then,” remarked Andre, “we have but one course to pursue: we must trace those notes to the hands in which they now are, and take them up.”
“Quite right.”
“But to enable us to do so, you must first let us know the name of the party who discounted them.”
“I don’t know; I have forgotten,” answered Verminet, with a careless wave of his hand.
“Then,” returned Andre, in a low, deep voice of concentrated fury, “let me advise you, for your own sake, to make an immediate call upon your powers of memory.”
“Do you threaten me?”
“And if you do not succeed in remembering the name or names, the consequences may be more serious than you seem to anticipate.”
Verminet saw that the young painter was in dangerous earnest, and rose from his chair, but Andre was too quick for him.
“No,” said he, placing his back against the door; “you will not leave this room until you have done what I require.”
For fully ten minutes the men stood gazing at each other. Verminet was green with terror, while Andre’s face, though pale, was firm and determined.
“If the scoundrel makes any resistance,” said he to himself, “I will fling him out of the window.”
“The man is a perfect athlete,” thought Verminet, “and looks as if he would stick at nothing.”
Seeing that he had better give in, the managing director took up a bulky ledger, and began to turn over the leaves with trembling fingers.
Andre saw that he was holding it upside-down.
“There it is,” cried Verminet at last.
“Bills for five thousand francs. Gandelu and Rigal, booked for discount to Van Klopen, ladies’ tailor.”
Andre was silent.
Why was it that Verminet had suggested Rigal’s signature as the one he ought to imitate? And why had he handed the bills over to Van Klopen? Was it mere chance that had arranged it all? He did not believe it, but felt sure that some secret tie united them all together, Verminet, Van Klopen, Rigal, and the Marquis de Croisenois.
“Do you want anything more?” asked the manager of the Mutual Loan Society.
“Are the bills in Van Klopen’s hands?”
“I can’t say.”
“Never mind, he will have to tell me where they are, if he has not got them,” returned Andre.
They left the house, and as soon as they were again in the street Andre took his companion’s arm, and hurried him off in the direction of the Rue de Grammont.
“I don’t want to give this thief, Verminet, time to warn Van Klopen of what has taken place; I had rather fall upon him with the suddenness of an earthquake. Come, let us go to his establishment at once.”
