The Blackmailers: Dossier No. 113. Richard Dalby

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СКАЧАТЬ bearing, in deep mourning, entered the office nearest the strong room, in which five or six of the staff were at work. He asked to see the chief cashier.

      He was told that the cashier had not yet arrived and that the strong room did not open till ten, a large notice to this effect being displayed in the vestibule.

      This reply seemed to disconcert and annoy the newcomer.

      ‘I thought,’ he said in a dry almost impertinent tone, ‘that I should find someone here to see me, after arranging with M. Fauvel yesterday. I am Count Louis de Clameran, ironmaster at Oloron. I have come to withdraw 300,000 francs deposited here by my brother, whose heir I am. It is surprising that you have not received instructions.’

      Neither the title of the noble ironmaster nor his business seemed to touch the staff.

      ‘The cashier has not yet come,’ they repeated, ‘we can do nothing.’

      ‘Then let me see M. Fauvel.’ After a certain amount of hesitation, a young member of the staff named Cavaillon, who worked near the window, said:

      ‘He always goes out about this time.’

      ‘I shall go then,’ said M. de Clameran.

      He went out without saluting or raising his hat, as he had done when he came in.

      ‘Our client is not very polite,’ said Cavaillon, ‘but he has no luck, for here is Prosper.’

      The chief cashier, Prosper Bertomy, was a fine fellow of thirty, he was fair with blue eyes and dressed in the latest style.

      He would have been very good-looking but for an exaggerated English manner, making him cold and formal at will, and an air of conceit, which spoiled his naturally laughing face.

      ‘Ah, here you are,’ said Cavaillon. ‘Someone has been asking for you already!’

      ‘Who was it? An ironmaster, was it not?’

      ‘Precisely.’

      ‘Ah, well, he will came back. Knowing I should be late this morning, I made preparations yesterday.’ Prosper having opened the door of his room as he spoke went in and shut it after him.

      ‘He is a cashier who does not worry,’ one of the staff said. ‘The chief has had twenty scenes with him for being late, and he takes as much notice as he does of the year forty.’

      ‘He is quite right, too, for he gets all he wants out of the chief.’

      ‘Besides, how does he look in the morning? Like a fellow who leads a terrible life and enjoys himself every night. Did you notice his ghastly look this morning?’

      ‘He must have been playing again, like he did last month. I found out from Couturier that he lost 1,500 francs at a single sitting!’

      ‘Does he neglect business?’ asked Cavaillon. ‘If you were in his place—’

      He stopped short. The strong room door opened, and the cashier came in tottering.

      ‘I have been robbed!’ he cried.

      Prosper’s look, his raucous voice, his tremors, expressed such frightful anguish, that all the staff got up and rushed to him. He almost fell into their arms, he could not stand, he felt ill and had to sit down.

      But his colleagues surrounded him, all asking questions at the same time and pressing him to explain.

      ‘Robbed,’ they said; ‘where, how, by whom?’

      Prosper gradually recovered.

      ‘All I had in the safe,’ he replied, ‘has been taken.’

      ‘Everything?’

      ‘Yes, three packets of a hundred one thousand franc notes, and one of fifty. The four packets were wrapped round by a piece of paper and tied together.’ With the rapidity of a flash of lightning the news of the robbery spread through the bank, and the room was quickly filled with a curious crowd.

      ‘Has the safe been forced?’ Cavaillon asked Prosper.

      ‘No, it is intact.’

      ‘Well, then?’

      ‘It is none the less a fact that last evening I had 350,000 francs and this morning they are gone.’ Everybody was silent; one old servant did not share the general consternation.

      ‘Do not lose your head like this, M. Bertomy,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the chief has disposed of the money?’

      The unfortunate cashier jumped at the idea.

      ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘you are right; it must be the chief.’

      Then, after reflection, he went on in a deeply discouraged tone:

      ‘No, it is not possible. Never during the five years I have been cashier has M. Fauvel opened the safe without me! Two or three times he has needed funds and has waited for me, or sent for me rather, than touch it in my absence.’

      ‘That does not matter,’ objected Cavaillon.

      ‘Before distressing ourselves, we must let him know.’ But M. André Fauvel knew already. A clerk had gone up to his private room and told him what had taken place.

      Just as Cavaillon suggested going to tell him he appeared.

      M. André Fauvel was a man of about fifty, of medium height, and hair turning grey, who walked with a slight slouch. He had an air of benevolence, a frank open face and red lips. He was born near Aix, and in times of excitement he spoke with a slight provincial accent.

      The news he had heard had disturbed him, for he was very pale.

      ‘What is the matter?’ he asked the employees, who respectfully drew back as he approached. The cashier got up and advanced to meet him.

      ‘Sir,’ he began, ‘yesterday I sent for 350,000 francs from the bank to make the payment today of which you are

      aware.’

      ‘Why yesterday?’ the banker interrupted ‘I have told you a hundred times to wait till the day.’

      ‘I know, sir, I was wrong, but the mischief is done. The money has disappeared, without the safe being forced.’

      ‘You must be mad or dreaming!’ cried M. Fauvel.

      Prosper answered almost without trouble or rather with the indifference of one in a hopeless position.

      ‘I am not mad nor dreaming. I am telling you the truth.’

      This calmness seemed to exasperate M. Fauvel. He seized Prosper by the arm and shook him, as he said:

      ‘Speak! Speak! Who opened the safe?’

      ‘I cannot say.’

      ‘Only you and I knew the word; only you and I had the key.’

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