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Updated: May 1, 2025
I cannot think that an English citizen will be allowed to perish by the guillotine innocent and practically unheard! Please bring linen and brushes, &c., but not Sam, who would be certain to embroil himself with the French police. I am writing to the Times and Lord Palmerston. Sincerely yours, From Monsieur Lecoq to Inspector Bucket. May 27. Sir, There has arrived a frightful misunderstanding.
"And to think," he murmured, astonished by the brilliancy of the stone, "to think that a woman who had ten thousand francs' worth of jewels in her ears would have come to the Poivriere. Who would have believed it?" Lecoq shook his head thoughtfully. "Yes, it is very strange, very improbable, very absurd.
This worthy man greeted Lecoq very affably. He put on his glasses, examined the jewel with a grimace of satisfaction, and, in the tone of an oracle, remarked: "That stone is worth eight thousand francs, and it was set by Doisty, in the Rue de la Paix." Twenty minutes later Lecoq entered this well-known jeweler's establishment. Van Numen had not been mistaken.
To find that link Lecoq spent a month in visiting the old home of the De Clamerans, the estate formerly occupied by Gaston de Clameron, who had died a few days before the robbery, and also in a trip to England. When he returned to Paris, dossier No. 113 was complete. III. The Dossier In her extreme youth, Madame Fauvel had been secretly loved by Gaston de Clameron.
"You men," said M. Lecoq, "wait till I call before you go in; I will leave the door ajar." He rang; the door swung open; and M. Plantat and the detective went in under the arch. The porter was on the threshold of his lodge. "Monsieur Wilson?" asked M. Lecoq. "He is out." "I will speak to Madame, then." "She is also out." "Very well.
"Yes," responded Lecoq, slowly, "yes; this supposition very naturally presents itself to the mind. But think a moment, sir, such a theory would prove that the idea we entertained a short time since is altogether false. If the Widow Chupin is an accomplice, the murderer is not the person we have supposed him to be; he is simply the man he seems to be."
Fanferlot, acting on instructions, had kept a strict watch on the movements of Madeline, and by this means Lecoq received timely warning of a mysterious excursion which the girl made one night. He followed her to a lonely house on the outskirts of the city.
It is evident that such a prisoner would not resort to old, hackneyed, commonplace expedients. Time, patience, and research are requisite to find a flaw in his defense. With such a man as he is, the more appearances are against my presumptions, and in favor of his narrative, the more certain it is that I am right or else logic is no longer logic." At this thought, Lecoq burst into a hearty laugh.
"Are you the fiend himself?" cried the young man. "I am M. Lecoq." Andre started back in absolute dread at the name of this celebrated detective. "M. Lecoq!" repeated he. The vanity of the great detective was much flattered when he saw the impression that his name had produced.
Only one man could help her out of her difficulties, Victor Lecoq, the father of her child. He was strong and understood farming; with a little money in his pocket he would make an excellent cultivator. She was aware of his skill, having known him while he was working on her parents' farm. So one morning, seeing him passing along the road with a cart of manure, she went out to meet him.
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