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Updated: May 15, 2025
If he returns, you will come back with him, and the moment his cab stops before the house give two loud whistles, you know. Then wait for me in the street, taking care to retain your cab, which you will lend to Monsieur Plantat if he needs it." "All right," said Palot, who hastened off without more ado.
But at the moment he was about to open the door, he stopped and made a signal. Palot immediately appeared. "I give you two hours to get yourself up so that the porter won't recognize you, and to have some dinner. You are an upholsterer's apprentice. Now clear out; I shall wait for you here."
He picked up one of the pieces, and at once saw what had been done; the woodwork had been sawed almost in two, and the putty with which the marks of the cuts had been concealed still clung to the wood. Palot called one of the workmen, who appeared to be more intelligent than his fellows, pointed out the marks to him, and bade him gather up the fragments and put them in some place of security.
M. Lecoq's face, which had up to that moment worn an anxious expression, beamed with joy. He felt the natural pride of a captain who has succeeded in his plans for the enemy's destruction. He tapped the old justice of the peace familiarly on the shoulder, and pronounced a single word: "Nipped!" Palot shook his head. "It isn't certain," said he. "Why?"
This duty being accomplished, Palot joined the crowd; but he was too late, for Andre had been taken away to the hospital. He looked around to see if there was any one from whom he could gain information, and suddenly perceived on a bench some one whom he had often followed. It was Toto Chupin, no longer clad in the squalid rags of a day or two back.
M. Plantat and the detective, left alone, began to walk up and down the gallery; both were grave and silent, as men are at a decisive moment; there is no chatting about a gaming-table. M. Lecoq suddenly started; he had just seen his agent at the end of the gallery. His impatience was so great that he ran toward him, saying: "Well?" "Monsieur, the game has flown, and Palot after him!"
I have just left a friend of mine, M. Palot, who brought me valuable information from London. Now, my young gentleman, I will tell you the little story he told me, and then you can give your opinion of it. "In 1847 Lord Murray, a wealthy and generous nobleman, had a jockey named Spencer, of whom he was very fond. At the Epsom races, this jockey was thrown from his horse, and killed.
He was a foundling, it is true; but what foundling has not had lofty aspirations, and felt that, for all he knew, he might be the scion of some noble house. As soon as Lecoq thought that the coast was clear, he opened the door, and called the agent, Palot. "My lad," said the great man, "you saw that young man who went out just now? He is a noble fellow, full of good feeling and honor.
'Besides, he added, 'my master is an American; he gives us our orders in French, but Madame and he always talk English together." M. Lecoq's eye glistened as Palot proceeded. "Tremorel speaks English, doesn't he?" asked he of M. Plantat. "Quite well; and Laurence too." "If that is so, we are on the right track, for we know that Tremorel shaved his beard off on the night of the murder.
I look upon him as my friend." Palot made a gesture signifying that henceforth his late antagonist was as something sacred in his eyes. "You will be his shadow," pursued Lecoq, "and keep near enough to him to rush to his aid at a moment of danger. That gang, of which Mascarin is the head, want his life. You are my right-hand man, and I trust him to you.
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