Again and again he had shouted to the astonished chauffeur, who was driving his taxi as fast as the crowded street permitted: "Get on! In the devil's name, go faster — faster!"
Night was falling. The close of this November day was particularly beautiful. Behind the Arc de Triomphe a broad band of red on the horizon reflected the setting sun in its winter glory. The breeze was wafting the last red-brown leaves from the trees, turning them over and over before they fell on the autumnal greensward and the black earth of the empty flower-beds.
Rows of carriages were moving towards the Étoile. As they had cleared the Rond-Point of the Champs-Elysées Brocq uttered a cry of joy. Some fifty yards away his keen eye had caught sight of Bobinette's taxi: he had identified the number.
"There it is!"
He urged the chauffeur to follow it up closely, regardless of consequences.
"A moment more and we shall have caught up the 249," said Brocq to himself. His landaulet was gaining ground.
The crowd of vehicles, the police holding them up where the roads intersected, impeded the advance. Brocq, wild with impatience, could not keep still. At last they reached the Place de l'Étoile. The carriages, conforming to rule, rounded the monument on the right, going more and more slowly owing to the increased crush. But the captain felt relieved; only one cab, drawn by a horse, now separated him from Bobinette's taxi, and assuredly her vehicle and his would be abreast, side by side at the entry to the avenue of the Bois de Boulogne.
Brocq loved Bobinette dearly, but frankly, if for a joke or inadvertently she had carried off the document, he would give her a piece of his mind. He would let her know that it would not do to play tricks with things of that sort. Nevertheless, his heart was wrung with anxiety.
Supposing Bobinette had noticed nothing — if the document had fallen in the street?
Suddenly the poor fellow saw Bobinette's taxi cut across the line of carriages to the right and turn into the Avenue de la Grand-Armée.
Brocq's chauffeur did not seem to have noticed this: he continued in the direction of the Bois de Boulogne.
"Oh, you idiot!" shouted the captain. And, in order to give his instructions as rapidly as possible, he leaned almost entirely out of the vehicle.
But a second or two had passed when the chauffeur stopped dead, that he might see what had happened to his fare. Something must have happened, for Brocq had abruptly stopped short in the midst of his directions. He had collapsed on the cushions of the taxi, and remained motionless.
Other vehicles surrounded the automobile. Some ladies passing in a victoria noticed the captain.
"Look, my dear," exclaimed one of them, "do you see how pale that man is? He seems to be ill!"...
At the same moment, the pedestrians were struck by the officer's strange attitude. Brocq had suddenly subsided in a heap on the cushion, his head had fallen to one side, his mouth was open, his eyes were closed: he seemed to have fainted.
A crowd gathered at once.
The chauffeur got down, shook his fare by the arm, and the arm was inert.
The crowd increased.
"A doctor!" cried a voice. "It is plain that this man is ill!"
A man stepped out from the crowd. His hair was white, he wore a decoration ribbon, and he had descended from a private brougham. With an air of authority he made his way through the curious onlookers, and when a constable came forward he said: "Kindly make these people stand away. I am Professor Barrell of the School of Medicine."
There was a murmur of respectful sympathy among the onlookers, for the professor was famous.
This master of medicine with a sure hand had undone the collar, the cravat of the mysterious sufferer, half opened his overcoat, put his ear to the patient's heart, then, straightening himself, considered the face attentively, not without a certain amount of stupefaction.
The constable made a suggestion: "Had we not better take this individual to a chemist's?"
Professor Barrell replied in a low voice: "To a chemist's? Do so if you wish ... but it is useless ... you would do better to go to the police-station: this unfortunate man is dead — it is a case of sudden death." The medical man added some technical words which this guardian of the peace did not understand.
II
DOCUMENT NUMBER SIX
"Hullo!... Am I speaking to Headquarters of Police?"
"Yes?"
"To the sergeant?... Good!... It is the superintendent of the Wagram Quarter who is telephoning.... They have just brought here the body of an officer who has died suddenly, Place de l'Étoile, and I want you to send me one of your inspectors.... This officer was the bearer of important documents.... I must send them direct to the military authorities.... Hullo!... Good.... You will send me someone immediately?... An inspector will be here in ten minutes?... Splendid!... Very good!"
The superintendent hung up the telephone receiver and turned to the policeman, who stood motionless awaiting orders. He was visibly embarrassed.
The police superintendent of the Wagram Quarter was a man of decisive action. He possessed in the highest degree the quality, the most precious of all for those of the police force, whose functions call them to intervene continually in the most surprising adventures — presence of mind.
A few minutes before this the taxi with its tragic burden had stopped at his police-station, and the men on duty had carried in the body of the unfortunate captain.
Called in all haste, the sergeant had immediately made a rapid investigation. He examined the documents in the victim's portfolio.
"Here's a go!" he muttered — "'State of munition supplies!' 'Orders for the eastern fortresses!' I do not want to keep such important documents longer than I can help."
He had immediately telephoned to Headquarters. Reassured by the sergeant's reply, the superintendent turned to the policeman.
"You have made out your report?" he asked curtly.
The honest guardian of the peace touched his cap, looked perplexed, and scratched his head.
"Not yet, Monsieur. No time, Monsieur. But I will write it out at once."
The superintendent smiled at his embarrassed subordinate. "Suppose we do it together!"
"Let us see now! The deceased was a captain — isn't that so? The papers found in his portfolio and the name written on it let us know that he was called Brocq, and that he was attached to the Ministry. So much for his identity. We will not trouble about his domicile, the Place will tell us that! Now let us go into the details of the accident — tell me, my man, exactly how his death occurred!"
Again the worthy guardian of the peace scratched his head with an anxious look.
"I saw nothing of it, Monsieur," he replied.
"And the taxi-driver? You have his deposition?"
"He did not see anything either, Monsieur."
"Call this chauffeur."
A few minutes after, the superintendent dismissed the chauffeur. A short interrogation revealed that the taxi-driver had not only seen nothing, but that he could do nothing to help the enquiry.
The superintendent recalled the honest policeman.
"Come now! You are certain that the victim died immediately?"
"Well, you see, Monsieur, while I was dispersing the crowd, a doctor came up, and it was he who told me how the dead man died!"
"This doctor did not point out to you the cause of death?"